POEMS    BY 
JULIA  C.  R.   DORR 


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*   POEMS  s 


BY 


j;^^   JULIA  C.^fe/rbiORR 


COMPLETE  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

MDCCCXCII 


Copyright,  1879,  1885,  1892,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


TROW   DIRECTORY 

PRINTINQ  AND   BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 

NSW  YORK 


L 


TO  S.    M.    D, 

ET  us  go  forth  and  gather  golden-rod  ! 
O  love,  my  love,  see  how  upon  the  hills, 
Where  still  the  warm  air  palpitates  and  thrills^ 
And  earth  lies  breathless  in  the  sjuile  of  God, 
Like  plumes  of  serried  hosts  its  tassels  nod  ! 
All  the  green  vales  its  golden  glory  fills  ; 
By  lonely  waysides  and  by  mountain  rills 
Its  yelloiv  banners  flaunt  above  the  sod. 
Perhaps  the  apple-blossoms  were  more  fair  ; 
Perhaps,  dear  heart,  the  roses  were  more  S7veet, 
June's  dewy  roses,  with  their  buds  half  blown  ; 
Yet  what  care  we,  ruhile  tremulous  and  rare 
This  golden  sunshine  falleth  at  our  feet 

And  song  lives  on,  thotigh  summer  birds  have  flown 
August,  1884. 

Let  the  words  stand  as  they  were  writ,  dear  heart  ! 
Although  no  more  for  thee  in  earthly  bowers 
Shall  bloom  the  earlier  or  the  later  flowers  ; 

Although  to-day  'tis  spring-time  where  thou  art^ 

While  I,  with  Autumn,  wander  far  apart. 
Yet,  in  the  name  of  that  long  love  of  ours, 
Tested  by  years  and  tried  by  sun  and  shoivers. 

Let  the  words  stand  as  they  were  zvrit,  dear  heart  / 


M168144 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Dedication,     To  S.  M.  D v 

EARLIER   POEMS. 

The  Three  Ships 3 

Maud  and  Madge, 6 

A  Mother's  Question, 8 

Over  the  Wall, 9 

Outgrown, " 

A  Song  for  Two, 14 

A  Picture, •  ^5 

Hymn  to  Life, 16 

The  Chimney  Swallow, 18 

Heirship, 20 

Hilda,  Spinning, 22 

Hereafter, 25 

Without  and  Within, 27 

Vashti's  Scroll 29 

What  my  Friend  Said  to  Me, 37 

Hymn.     For  the  Dedication  of  a  Cemetery,       ...  38 

Yesterday  and  To-day, 39 

Lyric.     For  the  Dedication  of  a  Music-Hall,    ...  41 

What  I  Lost, 43 

Once! 45 

Catharine, 47 

The  Name, 48 

Under  the  Palm-Trees, 49 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Night  and  Morning, 51 

Agnes, 53 

"Into  Thy  Hands," 55 

Idle  Words, 56 

The  Sparrow  to  the  Skylark, 58 

The  Bell  of  St.  Paul's, 60 

December  26,  19 10.     A  Ballad  of  Major  Anderson,          .  62 

From  Baton  Rouge,  .        .         • 66 

In  the  Wilderness, 68 

Charley  of  Malvern  Hill 70 

SuppLiCAMUs, 73 

The  Last  of  Six, 75 

The  Drummer  Boy's  Burial, 79 

Eighteen  Hundred  and  Sixty-five,       ....  82 

Our  Flags  at  the  Capitol, 84 

My  MocKiNG-BiRD, 86 

Coming  Home, 88 

Wakening  Early, 90 

Blest, 92 

Helen, 94 

"PRO   PATRIA." 

The  Dead  Century, 97 

The  River  Otter, 106 

Past  and  Present, 109 

Vermont 114 

Gettysburg.     1863- 1889 126 

"No  More  the  Thunder  of  Cannon,"     ...  133 

Grant 135 

FRIAR  ANSELMO,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Friar  Anselmo, 141 

The  King's  Rosebud, 146 

Somewhere, 147 


CONTENTS  IX 

PAGE 

Peradventure, 148 

Rena.     a  Legend  of  Brussels,       .         .         .         .         .         .  150 

A  Secret, 159 

This  Day, 161 

"CiiRisTus ! " 163 

The  Kiss, 167 

What  She  Thought, 168 

What  Need  ? .  170 

Two, 172 

Unanswered, 175 

The  Clay  to  the  Rose, 178 

At  the  Last, 180 

To  the  "Bouquet  Club," 181 

Eventide, 182 

My  Lovers, 184 

The  Legend  of  the  Organ-builder,      ....  186 

Butterfly  and  Baby  Blue, 190 

King  Ivan's  Oath, 192 

At  Dawn, 199 

In  Memoriam, 201 

Weaving  the  Web, 203 

The  "Christus"  of  Oberammergau,    ....  205 

Rabbi  Benaiah, 206 

A  Child's  Thought, 209 

•*GoD  Knows," 2n 

The  Mountain  Road, 213 

Entering  In, 215 

A  Flower  for  the  Dead, 217 

Thou  Knowest, 219 

Winter, 220 

Five,' 221 

Unsolved, 223 

Quietness, 226 

The  Difference, 227 

My  Birthday, 229 

A  Red  Rose, 231 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Twenty-one, 233 

Singing  in  the  Dark, 235 

Thomas  Moore, 236 

A  Last  Word, 238 

SONNETS. 

The  Sonnet.     I.  To  a  Critic 241 

**           "            II.  To  a  Poet 241 

At  Rest, 243 

Too  Wide  ! 244 

Mercedes, 245 

Grass-Grown, 246 

To  ZiJLMA,  I.,  II., 247 

Sleep,      ..........  249 

In  King's  Chapel, 250 

To-day, 251 

F.  A.  F., 252 

Day  and  Night,  I.,  II., 253 

Thy  Name, 255 

Resurgamus, 256 

At  the  Tomb, 257 

Three  Days,  I.,  II.,  III., 258 

Darkness, 260 

Silence, 261 

Sanctified, 262 

A  Message, 263 

When  Lesser  Loves, 264 

George  Eliot, 265 

Knowing, 266 

A  Thought, 267 

To-morrow,  I.,  II., 268 

"O  Earth!  Art  Thou  not  Weary?"      .        .        .  270 

Alexander, 271 

The  Place,  L,  II.,  IIL, 272 

To  A  Goddess, 274 


CONTENTS  XI 

PAGE 

O.  W.  H 275 

Gifts  for  the  King,        . ^7^ 

Recognition,  I.,  II., 277 

Shakespeare, 279 

To  E.  C.  S., 280 

A  Christmas  Sonnet, 281 

PovERiY, 282 

Surprises,  I.,  II 283 

C.  H.  R., 28s 

A  New  Beatitude, 286 

Compensation,  I.,  II., 287 

Questionings, 289 

Remembrance, 290 

In  the  High  Tower, 291 

AFTERNOON  SONGS. 

Four  O'Clocks, 295 

A  Dream  of  Songs  Unsung, 296 

Questioning  a  Rose, 304 

The  Fallow  Field, 306 

Out  and  In, 3^9 

Her  Flowers, 3^0 

Three  Laddies, 312 

Summer, 3^4 

Thornless  Roses, 315 

Treasure-Ships, 316 

Choosing, 318 

Not  Mine, 320 

The  Chamber  of  Silence,       ......  322 

Three  Roses, 325 

Four  Letters, 326 

Valdemar, 328 

Jubilate  I 338 

Easter  Lilies, 339 

**0,  Wind  that  Blows  Out  of  the  West,"        .        .  340 


Xil  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Summer  Song, 342 

The  Urn 344 

The  Parson's  Daughter,      .        .        .        .        .        .  345 

March  Fourth,  1881-1882, 348 

Roy, 350 

The  Painter's  Prayer, 351 

From  Exile, 354 

A  Mother-Song, 358 

Easter  Morning, 359 

Sealed  Orders, 363 

An  Anniversary, 365 

Martha, 367 

The  Hour, 368 

The  Closed  Gate, 369 

Content, 371 

My  Wonderland, 373 

The  Guest, 375 

An  Old-fashioned  Garden, 377 

Discontent, 380 

The  Doves  at  Mendon, 383 

A  Late  Rose, 386 

Periwinkle, 387 

Afternoon, 389 

The  Lady  of  the  Prow, 392 

Thou  and  I, .         .  395 


LATER   POEMS. 

The  Legend  of  the  Baboushka.     A  Christmas  Ballad,  .  399 

Daybreak.     An  Easter  Poem,          .....  405 

The  Apple-Tree, 411 

The  Comforter, 413 

Santa-Claus, 415 

The  Armorer's  Errand, 417 

Foreshadowings, 423 

Won, 425 


CONTENTS  XI 11 

PAGE 

Baptism  of  Fire, 427 

At  the  Feast,        .        , 429 

Over  and  Over, 430 

A  Listening  Bird, 432 

The  First  Fire, 433 

Midnight  Chimes, 436 

My  Lady  Sleep, 438 

The  King's  Touch, 440 

♦'By  Divers  Paths," 442 

The  Blind  Bird's  Nest, 444 

Two  Paths, 446 

St.  John's  Eve, 447 

A  Little  Song, 449 

The  Princes'  Chamber, 450 

Wonderland, 453 

In  a  Gallery, 455 

In  Marble  Prayer, .        .  457 

Nocturne, 459 

Come  What  May, •    .        .  460 

Nuremberg, 462 

A  Mater  Dolorosa,  ........  464 

After  Long  Waiting, 470 


EARLIER    POEMS 


THE   THREE   SHIPS 

Over  the  waters  clear  and  dark 
Flew,  like  a  startled  bird,  our  bark. 

All  the  day  long  with  steady  sweep 
Seagulls  followed  us  over  the  deep. 

Weird  and  strange  were  the  silent  shores, 
Rich  with  their  wealth  of  buried  ores  ; 

Mighty  the  forests,  old  and  gray, 

With  the  secrets  locked  in  their  hearts  away. 

Semblance  of  castle  and  arch  and  shrine 
Towered  aloft  in  the  clear  sunshine  ; 

And  we  watched  for  the  warder,  stern  and  grim, 
And  the  priest  with  his  chanted  prayer  and  hymn. 

Over  that  wonderful  northern  sea. 

As  one  who  sails  in  a  dream,  sailed  we, 

Till,  when  the  young  moon  soared  on  high, 
Nothing  was  round  us  but  wave  and  sky. 

Up  in  the  tremulous  space  it  swung, — 
A  crescent  dim  in  the  azure  hung  ; 

While  the  sun  lay  low  in  the  glowing  west. 
With  bars  of  purple  across  his  breast. 


THE  THREE   SHIPS 

The  skies  were  aflame  with  the  sunset  glow, 
The  billows  were  all  aflame  below  ; 

The  far  horizon  seemed  the  gate 

To  some  mystic  world's  enchanted  state  ; 

And  all  the  air  was  a  luminous  mist, 
Crimson  and  amber  and  amethyst. 

Then  silently  into  that  fiery  sea — 
Into  the  heart  of  the  mystery — 

Three  ships  went  sailing,  one  by  one, 
The  fairest  visions  under  the  sun. 

Like  the  flame  in  the  heart  of  a  ruby  set 
Were  the  sails  that  flew  from  each  mast  of  jet ; 

While  darkly  against  the  burning  sky 
Streamer  and  pennant  floated  high. 

Steadily,  silently,  on  they  pressed 
Into  the  glowing,  reddening  west ; 

Until,  on  the  far  horizon's  fold, 

They  slowly  passed  through  its  gate  of  gold. 

You  think,  perhaps,  they  were  nothing  more 
Than  schooners  laden  with  common  ore  ? 

Where  Care  clasped  hands  with  grimy  Toil, 
And  the  decks  were  stained  with  earthly  moil  ? 

Oh,  beautiful  ships,  that  sailed  that  night 
Into  the  west  from  our  yearning  sight, 

Full  well  I  know  that  the  freight  ye  bore 
Was  laden  not  for  an  earthly  shore  I 


THE   THREE   SHIPS 

To  some  far  realm  ye  were  sailing  on, 
Where  all  we  have  lost  shall  yet  be  won  ; 

Ye  were  bearing  thither  a  world  of  dreams, 
Bright  as  that  sunset's  golden  gleams  ; 

And  hopes  whose  tremulous,  rosy  flush, 
Grew  fairer  still  in  the  twilight  hush. 

Ye  were  bearing  hence  to  that  mystic  sphere 
Thoughts  no  mortal  may  utter  here, — 

Songs  that  on  earth  may  not  be  sung, — 
Words  too  holy  for  human  tongue, — 

The  golden  deeds  that  we  would  have  done, — 
The  fadeless  wreaths  that  we  would  have  won ! 

And  hence  it  was  that  our  souls  with  you 
Traversed  the  measureless  waste  of  blue, 

Till  you  passed  under  the  sunset  gate, 
And  to  us  a  voice  said,  softly,  "  Wait ! " 


MAUD   AND   MADGE 

Maud  in  a  crimson  velvet  chair 

Strings  her  pearls  on  a  silken  thread, 
While,  lovingly  lifting  her  golden  hair, 

Soft  airs  wander  about  her  head. 
She  has  silken  robes  of  the  softest  flow, 

She  has  jewels  rare  and  a  chain  of  gold, 
And  her  two  white  hands  flit  to  and  fro, 

Fair  as  the  dainty  toys  they  hold. 

She  has  tropical  birds  and  rare  perfumes  ; 

Pictures  that  speak  to  the  heart  and  eye  ; 
For  her  each  flower  of  the  Orient  blooms, — 

For  her  the  song  and  the  lute  swell  high  ; 
But  daintily  stringing  her  gleaming  pearls 

She  dreams  to-day  in  her  velvet  chair, 
While  the  sunlight  sleeps  in  her  golden  curls, 

Lightly  stirred  by  the  odorous  air. 

Down  on  the  beach,  when  the  tide  goes  out, 

Madge  is  gathering  shining  shells  ; 
The  sea-breeze  blows  her  locks  about  ; 

O'er  bare,  brown  feet  the  white  sand  swells. 
Coarsest  serge  is  her  gown  of  gray, 

Faded  and  torn  her  apron  blue, 
And  there  in  the  beautiful,  dying  day 

The  girl  still  thinks  of  the  work  to  do. 


MAUD    AND    MADGE 

Stains  of  labor  are  on  her  hands, 

Lost  is  the  young  form's  airy  grace  ; 
And  standing  there  on  the  shining  sands 

You  read  her  fate  in  her  weary  face. 
Up  with  the  dawn  to  toil  all  day 

For  meagre  fare  and  a  place  to  sleep  ; 
Seldom  a  moment  to  dream  or  play, 

Little  leisure  to  laugh  or  weep. 

Beautiful  Maud,  you  think,  maybe, 

Lying  back  in  your  velvet  chair. 
There  is  naught  in  common  with  her  and  thee,— 

You  scarce  could  breathe  in  the  self-same  air. 
But  the  warm  blood  in  her  girlish  heart 

Leaps  quick  as  yours  at  her  nature's  call. 
And  ye,  though  moving  so  far  apart. 

Must  share  one  destiny  after  all. 

Love  shall  come  to  you  both  one  day. 

For  still  must  be  what  aye  hath  been  ; 
And  under  satin  or  russet  gray 

Hearts  will  open  to  let  him  in. 
Motherhood  with  its  joy  and  woe 

Each  must  compass  through  burning  pain, — 
You,  fair  Maud,  with  your  brow  of  snow, 

Madge  with  her  brown  hands  labor- stained. 

Each  shall  sorrow  and  each  shall  weep. 

Though  one  is  in  hovel,  one  in  hall ; 
Over  your  gold  the  frost  shall  creep, 

As  over  her  jet  the  snows  will  fall. 
Exquisite  Maud,  you  lift  your  eyes 

At  Madge  out  yonder  under  the  sun  ; 
Yet  know  ye  both  by  the  countless  ties 

Of  a  common  womanhood  ye  are  one  ! 


A   MOTHER'S   QUESTION 

What  mother-angel  tended  thee  last  night, 

Sweet  baby  mine  ? 
Cradled  upon  what  breast  all  soft  and  white 

Didst  thou  recline  ? 

Who  took  thee,  frail  and  tender  as  thou  art. 

Within  her  arms  ? 
And  shielded  thee,  close  clasped  to  her  heart. 

From  all  alarms  ? 

Surely  that  God  who  lured  thee  from  the  breast 

That  hoped  to  be 
The  softest  pillow  and  the  sweetest  rest 

Thenceforth  to  thee, 

Sent  thee  not  forth  into  the  dread  unknown 

Without  a  guide, 
To  grope  in  darkness,  treading  all  alone 

The  path  untried. 

Compassionate  is  He  who  called  thee,  child  ; 

And  well  I  know 
He  sent  some  Blessed  One  of  aspect  mild 

With  thee  to  go 

Through  the  dark  valley,  where  the  shadows  dim 

Forever  brood, 
That  the  low  music  of  an  angel's  hymn 

Might  cheer  the  solitude  ! 


OVER   THE  WALL 

I  KNOW  a  spot  where  the  wild  vines  creep. 

And  the  coral  moss-cups  grow, 
And  where,  at  the  foot  of  the  rocky  steep, 

The  sweet  blue  violets  blow. 
There  all  day  long,  in  the  summer-time. 
You  may  hear  the  river's  dreamy  rhyme  ; 
There  all  day  long  does  the  honey-bee 
Murmur  and  hum  in  the  hollow  tree. 

And  there  the  feathery  hemlock  makes 

A  shadow  cool  and  sweet, 
While  from  its  emerald  wing  it  shakes 

Rare  incense  at  your  feet. 
There  do  the  silvery  lichens  cling, 
There  does  the  tremulous  harebell  swing  ; 
And  many  a  scarlet  berry  shines 
Deep  in  the  green  of  the  tangled  vines. 

Over  the  wall  at  dawn  of  day, 

Over  the  wall  at  noon, 
Over  the  wall  when  the  shadows  say 

That  night  is  coming  soon, 
A  little  maiden  with  laughing  eyes 
Climbs  in  her  eager  haste,  and  hies 
Down  to  the  spot  where  the  wild  vines  creep, 
And  violets  bloom  by  the  rocky  steep. 


lO  OVER   THE   WALL 

All  wild  things  love  her.     The  murmuring  bee 

Scarce  stirs  when  she  draws  near, 
And  sings  the  bird  in  the  hemlock-tree 

Its  sweetest  for  her  ear. 
The  harebells  nod  as  she  passes  by, 
The  violet  lifts  its  tender  eye, 
The  low  ferns  bend  her  steps  to  greet, 
And  the  mosses  creep  to  her  dancing  feet. 

Up  in  her  pathway  seems  to  spring 

All  that  is  sweet  or  rare, — 
Chrysalis  quaint,  or  the  moth's  bright  wing, 

Or  flower-buds  strangely  fair. 
She  watches  the  tiniest  bird's-nest  hid 
The  thickly  clustering  leaves  amid  ; 
And  the  small  brown  tree-toad  on  her  arm 
Quietly  hops,  and  fears  no  harm. 

Ah,  child  of  the  laughing  eyes,  and  heart 

Attuned  to  Nature's  voice  ! 
Thou  hast  found  a  bliss  that  will  ne'er  depart 

While  earth  can  say,  "Rejoice  !  " 
The  years  must  come,  and  the  years  must  go  ; 
But  the  flowers  will  bloom,  and  the  breezes  blow. 
And  bird  and  butterfly,  moth  and  bee, 
Bring  on  their  swift  wings  joy  to  thee  ! 


OUTGROWN 

Nay,  you  wrong  her,  my  friend,  she's  not  fickle  ;  her  love 

she  has  simply  outgrown  ; 
One  can  read  the  whole  matter,  translating  her  heart  by  the 

light  of  one's  own. 

Can  you  bear  me  to  talk  with  you  frankly  ?     There  is  much 

that  my  heart  would  say, 
And  you  know  we  were  children  together,  have  quarreled 

and  "  made  up  "  in  play. 

And  so,  for  the  sake  of  old  friendship,  I  venture  to  tell  you 

the  truth, 
As  plainly,  perhaps,  and  as  bluntly,  as  I  might  in  our  earlier 

youth. 

Five  summers  ago,  when  you  wooed  her,  you  stood  on  the 

self-same  plane, 
Face  to  face,  heart   to   heart,   never  dreaming  your  souls 

could  be  parted  again. 

She  loved  you  at  that  time  entirely,  in  the  bloom  of  her 

life's  early  May, 
And  it  is  not  her  fault,  I  repeat  it,  that  she  does  not  love 

you  to-day. 

Nature  never  stands  still,  nor  souls  either.     They  ever  go  up 

or  go  down  ; 
And  hers  has  been  steadily  soaring, — but  how  has  it  been 

with  your  own  ? 


12  OUTGROWN 

She  has  struggled,  and  yearned,  and  aspired, — grown 
stronger  and  wiser  each  year  ; 

The  stars  are  not  farther  above  you,  in  yon  luminous  at- 
mosphere ! 

For  she  whom  you  crowned  with  fresh  roses,  down  yonder, 
five  summers  ago. 

Has  learned  that  the  first  of  our  duties  to  God  and  our- 
selves is  to  grow. 

Her  eyes  they  are  sweeter  and  calmer,  but  their  vision  is 

clearer  as  well  ; 
Her  voice  has  a  tenderer  cadence,  but  it  rings  like  a  silver 

bell. 

Her  face  has  the  look  worn  by  those  who  with  God  and  his 

angels  have  talked  ; 
The  white  robes  she  wears  are  less  white  than  the  spirits 

with  whom  she  has  walked. 

And  you  ?     Have  you  aimed    at   the  highest  ?     Have  you, 

too,  aspired  and  prayed  ? 
Have  you  looked  upon  evil  unsullied  ?  have  you  conquered 

it  undismayed  ? 

Have  you,  too,  grown  stronger  and  wiser,  as  the  months  and 

the  years  have  rolled  on  ? 
Did  you  meet  her  this  morning  rejoicing  in  the  triumph  of 

victory  won  ? 

Nay,  hear  me  !     The  truth  cannot  harm  you.     When  to-day 

in  her  presence  you  stood. 
Was  the  hand  that  you  gave  her  as  white  and  clean  as  that 

of  her  womanhood  ? 


OUTGROWN  13 

Go  measure  yourself  by  her  standard.     Look  back  on  the 

years  that  have  fled  ; 
Then  ask,  if  you  need,  why  she  tells  you  that  the  love  of  her 

girlhood  is  dead ! 

She  cannot  look  down  to  her  lover  ;  her  love,  like  her  soul, 

aspires  ; 
He  must  stand  by  her  side,  or  above  her,  who  would  kindle 

its  holy  fires. 

Now,    farewell !     For   the   sake   of    old   friendship    I   have 

ventured  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
As  plainly,  perhaps,  and  as  bluntly,  as  I  might  in  our  earlier 

youth. 


A   SONG   FOR   TWO 

Not  for  its  sunsets  burning  clear  and  low, 
Its  purple  splendors  on  the  eastern  hills, 

Bless  I  the  Year  that  now  makes  haste  to  go 
While  sad  Earth  listens  for  its  dying  thrills. 

Not  that  its  days  were  sweet  with  sun  and  showers  ; 

Its  summer  nights  all  luminous  with  stars  : 
Not  that  its  vales  were  studded  thick  with  flowers ; 

Not  that  its  mountains  pierced  the  azure  bars  ; 

Not  that  from  our  dear  land,  by  slow  degrees, 
Some  mists  of  error  it  hath  blown  away  ; 

Not  for  its  noble  deeds — ah  !  not  for  these — 
Fain  would  I  twine  this  wreath  of  song  to-day. 

But  for  one  gift  that  it  has  brought  to  me 

My  grateful  heart  would  crown  the  dying  Year  : 

Because,  O  best-beloved,  it  gave  me  thee, 
I  drop  this  garland  on  the  passing  bier ! 


A  PICTURE 

A  LOVELY  bit  of  dappled  green 
Shut  in  the  circling  hills  between, 
While  farther  oflf  blue  mountains  stand 
Like  giant  guards  on  either  hand. 

The  quiet  road  in  still  repose 
Follows  where'er  the  river  flows ; 
And  in  and  out  it  glides  along, 
Enchanted  by  the  rippling  song. 

Afar,  I  see  the  steepled  town 

From  yonder  hillside  looking  down  ; 

And  sometimes,  when  the  south  wind  swells, 

Hear  the  faint  chiming  of  its  bells. 

But  under  these  embowering  trees. 
Lulled  by  the  hum  of  droning  bees, 
The  old  brown  farmhouse  seems  to  sleep, 
So  calm  its  rest  is  and  so  deep. 

Yonder,  beside  the  rustic  bridge, 
From  which  the  path  climbs  yonder  ridge, 
The  lazy  cattle  seek  the  shade 
By  the  umbrageous  willows  made. 

The  sky  is  like  a  hollow  pearl. 
Save  where  warm  sunset  clouds  unfurl 
Their  flaming  colors.     Lo  !  a  star, 
Even  as  I  gaze,  gleams  forth  afar ! 


HYMN   TO   LIFE 

Ah,  Life,  dear  Life,  how  beautiful  art  thou  ! 
All  day  sweet,  chiming  voices  in  my  heart 
Have  hymned  thy  praises  joyfully  as  now, 
Telling  how  fair  thou  art ! 

This  morn,  while  yet  the  dew  was  on  the  flowers, 

They  sang  like  skylarks,  soaring  while  they  sing ; 
This  noon,  like  birds  within  their  leafy  bowers. 
Warbled  with  folded  wing. 

Slow  fades  the  twilight  from  the  glowing  west, 

And  one  pale  star  hangs  o'er  yon  mountain's  brow  ; 
With  deeper  joy,  that  may  not  be  repressed, 
O  Life,  they  hail  thee  now  ! 

And  not  alone  from  this  poor  heart  of  mine 

Do  these  glad  notes  of  grateful  love  ascend  ; 
Voices  from  mount  and  vale  and  woodland  shrine 
In  the  full  chorus  blend. 

The  young  leaves  feel  thy  presence  and  rejoice 
The  while  they  frolic  with  the  happy  breeze  ; 
And  paeans  sweeter  than  a  seraph's  voice 
Rise  from  the  swaying  trees. 

Each  flower  that  hides  within  the  forest  dim. 

Where  mortal  eye  may  ne'er  its  beauty  see. 

Waves  its  light  censer,  while  it  breathes  a  hymn 

In  humble  praise  of  thee. 


HYMN    TO   LIFE  i; 

Through  quivering  pines  the  gentle  south  winds  stray, 

Singing  low  songs  that  bid  the  tear-drops  start ; 
And  thoughts  of  thee  are  in  each  trembling  lay, 
Thrilling  the  listener's  heart. 

Old  Ocean  lifts  his  solemn  voice  on  high, 
Thy  name,  O  Life,  repeating  evermore, 
While  sweeping  gales  and  rushing  storms  reply 
From  many  a  far-off  shore. 

The  stars  are  gathering  in  the  darkening  skies, 

But  our  dull  ears  their  music  may  not  hear, 
Though,  while  we  list,  their  swelling  anthems  rise 
Exultingly  and  clear ! 

O  Earth  is  beautiful !     She  weareth  still 

The  golden  radiance  of  life's  early  day  ; 
Still  Love  and  Hope  for  me  their  chalice  fill, — 
Life,  turn  not  thou  away  I 


THE   CHIMNEY   SWALLOW 

One  night  as  I  sat  by  my  table, 

Tired  of  books  and  pen, 
With  wandering  thoughts  far  straying 

Out  into  the  world  of  men  ; — 
That  world  where  the  busy  workers 

Such  magical  deeds  are  doing, 
Each  one  with  a  steady  purpose 

His  own  pet  plans  pursuing  ; 

When  the  house  was  wrapt  in  silence, 

And  the  children  were  all  asleep, 
And  even  the  mouse  in  the  wainscot 

Had  ceased  to  run  and  leap. 
All  at  once  from  the  open  chimney 

Came  a  hum  and  a  rustle  and  whirring, 
That  startled  me  out  of  my  dreaming. 

And  set  my  pulses  stirring. 

What  was  it  ?     I  paused  and  listened  ; 

The  roses  were  all  in  bloom. 
And  in  from  the  garden  floated 

The  violet's  rich  perfume. 
So  it  could  not  be  Kriss  Kringle, 

For  he  only  comes,  you  know, 
When  the  Christmas  bells  are  chiming, 

And  the  hills  are  white  with  snow. 


THE   CHIMNEY   SWALLOW  IQ 

Hark !  a  sound  as  of  rushing  waters, 

Or  the  rustle  of  falling  leaves, 
Or  the  patter  of  eager  raindrops 

Yonder  among  the  eaves  ! 
Then  out  from  the  dark,  old  chimney. 

Blackened  with  soot  and  smoke, 
With  a  whir  of  fluttering  pinions 

A  startled  birdling  broke. 

Dashing  against  the  window  ; 

Lighting  a  moment  where 
My  sculptured  angel  folded 

Its  soft  white  wings  in  prayer  ; 
Swinging  upon  the  curtains  ; 

Perched  on  the  ivy-vine  ; 
At  last  it  rested  trembling 

In  tender  hands  of  mine. 

No  stain  upon  its  plumage  ; 

No  dust  upon  its  wings  ; 
No  hint  of  its  companionship 

With  darkly  soiling  things  ! 
O,  happy  bird,  thou  spirit ! 

Stretch  thy  glad  plumes  and  soar 
Where  breath  of  soil  or  sorrow 

Shall  reach  thee  nevermore  I 


HEIRSHIP 

Little  store  of  wealth  have  I  ; 

Not  a  rood  of  land  I  own  ;      * 
Nor  a  mansion  fair  and  high 

Built  with  towers  of  fretted  stone. 
Stocks,  nor  bonds,  nor  title-deeds, 

Flocks  nor  herds  have  I  to  show  ; 
When  I  ride,  no  Arab  steeds 

Toss  for  me  their  manes  of  snow. 

I  have  neither  pearls  nor  gold. 

Massive  plate,  nor  jewels  rare  ; 
Broidered  silks  of  worth  untold, 

Nor  rich  robes  a  queen  might  wear. 
In  my  garden's  narrow  bound 

Flaunt  no  costly  tropic  blooms, 
Ladening  all  the  air  around 

With  a  weight  of  rare  perfumes. 

Yet  to  an  immense  estate 

Am  I  heir,  by  grace  of  God, — 
Richer,  grander  than  doth  wait 

Any  earthly  monarch's  nod. 
Heir  of  all  the  Ages,  I — 

Heir  of  all  that  they  have  wrought, 
All  their  store  of  emprise  high. 

All  their  wealth  of  precious  thought. 


HEIRSHIP  21 

Every  golden  deed  of  theirs 

Sheds  its  lustre  on  my  way  ; 
All  their  labors,  all  their  prayers, 

Sanctify  this  present  day  ! 
Heir  of  all  that  they  have  earned 

By  their  passion  and  their  tears, — 
Heir  of  all  that  they  have  learned 

Through  the  weary,  toiling  years ! 

Heir  of  all  the  faith  sublime 

On  whose  wings  they  soared  to  heaven  ; 
Heir  of  every  hope  that  Time 

To  Earth's  fainting  sons  hath  given  I 
Aspirations  pure  and  high — 

Strength  to  dare  and  to  endure — 
Heir  of  all  the  Ages,  I — 

Lo  !  I  am  no  longer  poor  ! 


HILDA,    SPINNING 


Spinning,  spinning,  by  the  sea, 

All  the  night  ! 
On  a  stormy,  rock-ribbed  shore, 
Where  the  north  winds  downward  pour, 
And  the  tempests  fiercely  sweep 
From  the  mountains  to  the  deep, 
Hilda  spins  beside  the  sea. 

All  the  night ! 

Spinning,  at  her  lonely  window. 

By  the  sea  ! 
With  her  candle  burning  clear, 
Every  night  of  all  the  year, 
And  her  sweet  voice  crooning  low, 
Quaint  old  songs  of  love  and  woe, 
Spins  she  at  her  lonely  window. 

By  the  sea. 

On  a  bitter  night  in  March, 

Long  ago, 
Hilda,  very  young  and  fair. 
With  a  crown  of  golden  hair. 
Watched  the  tempest  raging  wild, 
Watched  the  roaring  sea — and  smiled 
Through  that  woeful  night  in  March, 

Long  ago  ! 


HILDA,    SPINNING  23 

What  though  all  the  winds  were  out 

In  their  might  ? 
Richard's  boat  was  tried  and  true  ; 
Stanch  and  brave  his  hardy  crew ; 
Strongest  he  to  do  or  dare. 
Said  she,  breathing  forth  a  prayer, 
'*  He  is  safe,  though  winds  are  out 

In  their  might !  " 

But  at  length  the  morning  dawnedj 

Still  and  clear ! 
Calm,  in  azure  splendor,  lay 
All  the  waters  of  the  bay  ; 
And  the  ocean's  angry  moans 
Sank  to  solemn  undertones. 
As  at  last  the  morning  dawned, 

Still  and  clear  ! 

With  her  waves  of  golden  hair 

Floating  free, 
Hilda  ran  along  the  shore. 
Gazing  off  the  waters  o'er  ; 
And  the  fishermen  replied, 
"  He  will  come  in  with  the  tide," 
As  they  saw  her  golden  hair 

Floating  free  ! 

Ah !  he  came  in  with  the  tide — 

Came  alone ! 
Tossed  upon  the  shining  sands — 
Ghastly  face  and  clutching  hands^ 
Seaweed  tangled  in  his  hair — 
Bruised  and  torn  his  forehead  fair — 
Thus  he  came  in  with  the  tide, 

All  alone ! 


24  HILDA,    SPINNING 

Hilda  watched  beside  her  dead, 

Day  and  night. 
Of  those  hours  of  mortal  woe 
Human  ken  may  never  know  ; 
She  was  silent,  and  his  ear 
Kept  the  secret,  close  and  dear, 
Of  her  watch  beside  her  dead, 

Day  and  night ! 

What  she  promised  in  the  darkness. 

Who  can  tell  ? 
But  upon  that  rock-ribbed  shore 
Burns  a  beacon  evermore  ! 
And  beside  it,  all  the  night, 
Hilda  guards  the  lonely  light, 
Though  what  vowed  she  in  the  darkness, 

None  may  tell ! 

Spinning,  spinning  by  the  sea, 

All  the  night ! 
While  her  candle,  gleaming  wide 
O'er  the  restless,  rolling  tide, 
Guides  with  steady,  changeless  ray 
The  lone  fisher  up  the  bay, 
Hilda  spins  beside  the  sea, 

Through  the  night ! 

Fifty  years  of  patient  spinning 

By  the  sea ! 
Old  and  worn,  she  sleeps  to-day. 
While  the  sunshine  gilds  the  bay  ; 
But  her  candle,  shining  clear, 
Every  night  of  all  the  year, 
Still  is  telling  of  her  spinning 

By  the  sea  ! 


HEREAFTER 

O  LAND  beyond  the  setting  sun ! 

O  realm  more  fair  than  poet's  dream  ! 
How  clear  thy  silver  rivers  run, 

How  bright  thy  golden  glories  gleam  ! 

Earth  holds  no  counterpart  of  thine  ; 

The  dark-browed  Orient,  jewel-crowned, 
Pales  as  she  bows  before  thy  shrine, 

Shrouded  in  mystery  profound. 

The  dazzling  North,  the  stately  West, 
Whose  waters  flow  from  mount  to  sea  ; 

The  South,  flower-wreathed  in  languid  rest — 
What  are  they  all,  compared  with  thee  ? 

All  lands,  all  realms  beneath  yon  dome. 

Where  God's  own  hand  hath  hung  the  stars, 

To  thee  with  humblest  homage  come, 
O  world  beyond  the  crystal  bars  ! 

Thou  blest  Hereafter  !     Mortal  tongue 
Hath  striven  in  vain  thy  speech  to  learn, 

And  Fancy  wanders,  lost  among 

The  flowery  paths  for  which  we  yearn. 

But  well  we  know  that  fair  and  bright, 
Far  beyond  human  ken  or  dream, 

Too*  glorious  for  our  feeble  sight. 
Thy  skies  of  cloudless  azure  beam. 


26  HEREAFTER 

We  know  thy  happy  valleys  lie 
In  green  repose,  supremely  blest ; 

We  know  against  thy  sapphire  sky 
Thy  mountain-peaks  sublimely  rest. 

For  sometimes  even  now  we  catch 

Faint  gleamings  from  thy  far-off  shore, 

While  still  with  eager  eyes  we  watch 
For  one  sweet  sign  or  token  more. 

The  loved,  the  deeply  loved,  are  there  ! 

The  brave,  the  fair,  the  good,  the  wise, 
Who  pined  for  thy  serener  air, 

Nor  shunned  thy  solemn  mysteries. 

There  are  the  hopes  that,  one  by  one. 
Died  even  as  we  gave  them  birth  ; 

The  dreams  that  passed  ere  well  begun, 
Too  dear,  too  beautiful  for  earth. 

The  aspirations,  strong  of  wing. 

Aiming  at  heights  we  could  not  reach  ; 

The  songs  we  tried  in  vain  to  sing  ; 

The  thoughts  too  vast  for  human  speech  ; 

Thou  hast  them  all.  Hereafter  !     Thou 
Shalt  keep  them  safely  till  that  hour 

When,  with  God's  seal  on  heart  and  brow, 
We  claim  them  in  immortal  power ! 


WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN 

Softly  the  gold  has  faded  from  the  sky, 
Slowly  the  stars  have  gathered  one  by  one, 

Calmly  the  crescent  moon  mounts  up  on  high, 
And  the  long  day  is  done. 

With  quiet  heart  my  garden-walks  I  tread, 
Feeling  the  beauty  that  I  cannot  see  ; 

Beauty  and  fragrance  all  around  me  shed 
By  flower,  and  shrub,  and  tree. 

Often  I  linger  where  the  roses  pour 

Exquisite  odors  from  each  glowing  cup  ; 

Or  where  the  violet,  brimmed  with  sweetness  o'er. 
Lifts  its  small  chalice  up. 

With  fragrant  breath  the  lilies  woo  me  now, 
And  softly  speaks  the  sweet-voiced  mignonette, 

While  heliotropes,  with  meekly  lifted  brow, 
Say  to  me,  "  Go  not  yet." 

So  for  awhile  I  linger,  but  not  long. 

High  in  the  heavens  rideth  fiery  Mars, 
Careering  proudly  'mid  the  glorious  throng. 

Brightest  of  all  the  stars. 

But  softly  gleaming  through  the  curtain's  fold. 
The  home-star  beams  with  more  alluring  ray, 

And,  as  a  star  led  sage  and  seer  of  old, 
So  it  directs  my  way  ; 


28  WITHOUT  AND    WITHIN 

And  leads  me  in  where  my  young  children  lie, 
Rosy  and  beautiful  in  tranquil  rest  ; 

The  seal  of  sleep  is  on  each  fast-shut  eye, 
Heaven's  peace  within  each  breast. 

I  bring  them  gifts.     Not  frankincense  nor  myrrh — 

Gifts  the  adoring  Magi  humbly  brought 
The  young  child,  cradled  in  the  arms  of  her 
Blest  beyond  mortal  thought ; 

But  love — the  love  that  fills  my  mother-heart 
With  a  sweet  rapture  oft  akin  to  pain  ; 

Such  yearning  love  as  bids  the  tear-drops  start 
And  fall  like  summer  rain. 

And  faith — that  dares,  for  their  dear  sakes,  to  climb 
Boldly,  where  once  it  would  have  feared  to  go, 

And  calmly  standing  upon  heights  sublime, 
Fears  not  the  storm  below. 

And  prayer !    O  God  !  unto  thy  throne  I  come, 
Bringing  my  darlings — but  I  cannot  speak. 

With  love  and  awe  oppressed,  my  lips  are  dumb  : 
Grant  what  my  heart  would  seek ! 


VASHTI'S  SCROLL 

Dethroned  and  crownless,  I  so  late  a  queen ! 
Forsaken,  poor  and  lonely,  I  who  wore 
The  crown  of  Persia  with  such  stately  grace  ! 
But  yesterday  a  royal  wife  ;  but  now 
From  my  estate  cast  down,  and  fallen  so  low 
That  beggars  scoff  at  me !     Men  toss  my  name 
Backward  and  forward  on  their  mocking  tongues. 
In  all  the  king's  broad  realm  there  is  not  one 
To  do  poor  Vashti  homage.     Even  the  dog 
My  hand  had  fondled,  in  the  palace  walls 
Fawns  on  my  rival.     When  I  left  the  court, 
Weeping  and  sore  distressed,  he  followed  me, 
Licking  my  fingers,  leaping  in  my  face. 
And  frisking  round  me  till  I  reached  the  gates. 
Then  with  long  pauses,  as  of  one  perplexed, 
And  frequent  lookings  backward,  and  low  whines 
Of  puzzled  wonder — that  had  made  me  smile 
If  I  had  been  less  lorn — with  drooping  cars, 
Dropt  eyes,  and  downcast  forehead  he  went  back. 
Leaving  me  desolate.     So  went  they  all 
Who,  when  Ahasuerus  on  my  brow 
Set  his  own  royal  crown  and  called  me  queen, 
Made  the  air  ring  with  plaudits  !     Loud  they  cried, 
**  Long  live  Queen  Vashti,  Persia's  fairest  Rose, 
Mother  of  Princes,  and  the  nation's  Hope  !  " 
The  rose  is  withered  now ;  the  queen's  no  more. 
To  these  lorn  breasts  no  princely  boy  shall  cling 
Or  now,  or  ever.     Yet  on  this  poor  scroll 


30  VASHTI'S   SCROLL 

I  will  rehearse  the  story  of  my  woes, 
And  bid  them  lay  it  in  the  grave  with  me 
When  I  depart  to  join  the  unnumbered  dead. 


Oh,  thou  unknown,  unborn,  who  through  the  gloom 

And  mists  of  ages  in  my  vaulted  tomb 

Shalt  find  this  parchment,  and  with  reverent  care 

Shalt  bear  it  outward  to  the  sun  and  air  : 

Oh,  thou  whose  patient  fingers  shall  unroll 

With  slow,  persuasive  touch  this  little  scroll  : 

Oh,  loving,  tender  eyes  that,  like  twin  stars, 

I  seem  to  see  through  yonder  cloudy  bars  : 

Read  Vashti's  story,  and  I  pray  ye  tell 

The  whole  wide  world  if  she  did  ill  or  well ! 

Ahasuerus  reigned.     On  Persia's  throne, 

Lord  of  a  mighty  realm,  he  sat  alone. 

And  stretched  his  sceptre  from  the  farthest  slope 

Of  India's  hills,  to  where  the  Ethiop 

Dwelt  in  barbaric  splendor.     Kinglier  king 

Never  did  poet  praise  or  minstrel  sing  ! 

He  had  no  peers.     Among  his  lords  he  shone 

As  shines  a  planet,  single  and  alone  ; 

And  I,  alas  !  I  loved  him,  and  we  two 

Such  bliss  as  peasant  lovers  joy  in,  knew  ! 

No  lowly  home  in  all  our  wide  domain 

Held  more  of  peace  than  ours,  or  less  of  pain. 

But  one  dark  day — O,  woeful  day  of  days. 

Whose  hours  I  number  now  in  sad  amaze, 

Thou  hadst  no  prophet  of  the  ills  to  be. 

Nor  sign  nor  omen  came  to  succor  me  ! — 

That  day  Ahasuerus  smiled  and  said, 

"  Since  first  I  wore  this  crown  upon  my  head 

Thrice  have  the  emerald  clusters  of  the  vine 

Changed  to  translucent  globes  of  ruby  wine  ; 


VASHTI'S   SCROLL  3-1 

And  thrice  the  peaches  on  the  loaded  walls 
Have  slowly  rounded  into  wondrous  balls 
Of  gold  and  crimson.     I  will  make  a  feast. 
Princes  and  lords,  the  greatest  and  the  least, 
All  Persia  and  all  Media,  shall  see 
The  pomp  and  splendor  that  encompass  me. 
The  riches  of  my  kingdom  shall  be  shown, 
And  all  my  glorious  majesty  made  known 
Where'er  the  shadow  of  my  sceptred  hand 
Sways  a  great  people  with  its  mute  command  !  '* 
Then  came  from  far  and  near  a  hurrying  throng 
Of  skilled  and  cunning  workmen.     All  day  long 
And  far  into  the  startled  night,  they  wrought 
Most  quaint  and  beautiful  devices — still 
Responsive  to  their  master's  eager  will, 
And  giving  form  to  his  creative  thought — 
Till  Shushan  grew  a  marvel ! 

Never  yet 
Yon  rolling  sun  on  fairer  scene  has  set : 
The  palace  windows  were  ablaze  with  light  ; 
And  Persia's  lords  were  there,  most  richly  dight 
In  broidered  silks,  or  costliest  cloth  of  gold. 
That  kept  the  sunshine  in  each  lustrous  fold, 
Or  softly  flowing  tissues,  pure  and  white 
As  fleecy  clouds  at  noonday.     Clear  and  bright 
Shone  the  pure  gold  of  Ophir,  and  the  gleam 
Of  burning  gems,  that  mocked  the  pallid  beam 
Of  the  dim,  wondering  stars,  made  radiance  there, 
Splendor  undreamed  of,  and  beyond  compare  \ 
Up  from  the  gardens  floated  the  perfume 
Of  rose  and  myrtle,  in  their  perfect  bloom  ; 
The  red  pomegranate  cleft  its  heart  in  twain, 
Pouring  its  life  blood  in  a  crimson  rain  ; 
The  slight  acacia  waved  its  yellow  plumes, 
And  afar  off  amid  the  starlit  glooms 


32  VASHTI'S   SCROLL 

Were  sweet  recesses,  where  the  orange  bowers 
Dropt  their  pure  blossoms  down  in  snowy  showers, 
And  night  reigned  undisturbed. 

From  cups  of  gold 
Diverse  one  from  another,  meet  to  hold 
The  king's  most  costly  wines,  or  to  be  raised 
To  princely  lips,  the  gay  guests  drank,  and  praised 
Their  rich  abundance.     Rapturous  music  swept 
Through  the  vast  arches  and  the  secret  kept 
Of  its  own  joy  ;  while  in  slow,  rhythmic  time 
To  clash  of  cymbal  and  the  lute's  clear  chime, 
The  dancing- girls  stole  through  the  fragrant  night 
With  wreathed  arms,  flushed  cheeks  and  eyes  alight, 
And  softly  rounded  forms  that  rose  and  fell 
To  the  voluptuous  music's  dreamy  swell, 
As  if  the  air  were  pulsing  waves  that  bore 
Them  up  and  onward  to  some  longed-for  shore  I 

Wild  waxed  the  revel.     On  an  ivory  throne 

Inlaid  with  ebony  and  gems  that  shone 

With  a  surpassing  lustre,  sat  my  lord, 

The  King  Ahasuerus.     His  great  sword, 

Blazing  with  diamonds  on  hilt  and  blade, — 

The  mighty  sword  that  made  his  foes  afraid, — 

And  the  proud  sceptre  he  was  wont  to  grasp, 

With  all  the  monarch  in  his  kingly  clasp, 

Against  the  crouching  lions  (guard  that  kept 

On  either  side  the  throne  and  never  slept). 

Leaned  carelessly.     And  flowing  downward  o'er 

The  ivory  steps  even  to  the  marble  floor, 

Swept  the  rich  royal  robes  in  many  a  fold 

Of  Tyrian  purple  flecked  with  yellow  gold. 

The  jewelled  crown  his  young  head  scorned  to  wear, 

More  fitly  crowned  by  its  own  clustering  hair, 

Lay  on  a  pearl-wrought  cushion  by  his  side, 


VASHTIS   SCROLL  33 

Mute  symbol  of  great  Persia's  power  and  pride  ; 

While  on  his  brow  some  courtier's  hand  had  placed 

The  fairest  chaplet  monarch  ever  graced, 

A  wreath  of  dewy  roses,  fresh  and  sweet, 

Just  brought  from  out  the  garden's  cool  retreat. 

Louder  and  louder  grew  the  sounds  of  mirth  ; 

Faster  and  faster  flowed  the  red  wine  forth  ; 

In  high,  exulting  strains  the  minstrels  sang 

The  monarch's  glory,  till  the  great  roof  rang  ; 

And  flushed  at  length  with  pride  and  song  and  wine, 

The  king  rose  up  and  said,  *'  O  nobles  mine  ! 

Princes  of  Persia,  Media's  hope  and  pride, 

Stars  of  my  kingdom,  will  ye  aught  beside  ? 

Speak !  and  I  swear  your  sovereign's  will  shall  be 

On  this  fair  night  to  please  and  honor  ye  !  " 

Then  rose  a  shout  from  out  the  glittering  throng 

Drowning  the  voice  of  merriment  and  song. 

Humming  and  murmuring  like  a  hive  of  bees — 

What  would  they  more  each  charmed  sense  to  please  ? 

Out  spoke  at  last  a  tongue  that  should  have  been 

Palsied  in  foul  dishonor  there  and  then. 

*'  O  great  Ahasuerus  !  ne'er  before 

Reigned  such  a  king  so  blest  a  people  o'er  ! 

What  shall  we  ask  ?  What  great  and  wondrous  boon 

To  crown  the  hours  that  fly  away  too  soon  ? 

There  is  but  one.     'Tis  said  that  mortal  eyes 

Never  yet  gazed,  in  rapturous  surprise, 

Upon  a  face  like  that  of  her  who  wears 

Thy  signet-ring,  and  all  thy  glory  shares, — 

Thy  fair  Queen  Vashti,  she  who  yet  shall  be 

Mother  of  him  who  reigneth  after  thee  ! 

Show  us  that  face,  O  king  !  For  nought  beside 

Can  make  our  cup  of  joy  o'erflow  with  pride." 


34  VASHTI'S  SCROLL 

A  murmur  ran  throughout  the  startled  crowd, 
Swelling  at  last  to  plaudits  long  and  loud. 
Maddened  with  wine,  they  knew  not  what  they  said. 
Ahasuerus  bent  his  haughty  head. 
And  for  an  instant  o'er  his  face  there  swept 
A  look  his  courtiers  in  their  memory  kept 
For  many  a  day — a  look  of  doubt  and  pain, 
They  scarcely  caught  ere  it  had  passed  again. 
"My  word  is  pledged,"  he  said.     Then  to  the  seven 
Lord  chamberlains  to  whom  the  keys  were  given  ; 
"  Haste  ye,  and  to  this  noble  presence  bring 
Vashti,  the  Queen,  with  royal  crown  and  ring ; 
That  all  my  lords  may  see  the  matchless  charms 
Kind  Heaven  has  sent  to  bless  my  kingly  arms." 

They  did  their  errand,  those  old,  gray-haired  men. 

Who  should  have  braved  the  lion  in  his  den. 

Or  ere  they  bore  such  message  to  their  queen. 

Or  took  such  words  their  aged  lips  between. 

What !  I,  the  daughter  of  a  royal  race, 

Step  down,  unblushing,  from  my  lofty  place, 

And,  like  a  common  dancing-girl,  who  wears 

Her  beauty  unconcealed,  and,  shameless,  bares 

Her  brow  to  every  gazer,  boldly  go 

To  those  wild  revellers  my  face  to  show  ? 

I — who  had  kept  my  beauty  pure  and  bright 

Only  because  'twas  precious  in  his  sight, 

Guarding  it  ever  as  a  holy  thing, 

Sacred  to  him,  my  lover,  lord,  and  king, — 

Could  I  unveil  it  to  the  curious  eyes 

Of  the  mad  rabble  that  with  drunken  cries 

Were  shouting  ''  Vashti  !  Vashti  ?  " — Sooner  far, 

Beyond  the  rays  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 

I  would  have  buried  it  in  endless  night ! 

Pale  and  dismayed,  in  wonder  and  affright, 


VASHTI'S   SCROLL  35 

My  maidens  hung  around  me  as  I  told 

Those  seven  lord  chamberlains,  so  gray  and  old, 

To  bear  this  answer  back  :  "It  may  not  be. 

My  lord,  my  king,  I  cannot  come  to  thee. 

It  is  not  meet  that  Persia's  queen,  like  one 

Who  treads  the  market-place  from  sun  to  sun, 

Should  bare  her  beauty  to  the  hungry  crowd, 

Who  name  her  name  in  accents  hoarse  and  loud." 

With  stern,  cold  looks  they  left  me.     Ah  !  I  knew 

If  my  dear  lord  to  his  best  self  were  true. 

That  he  would  hold  me  guiltless,  and  would  say, 

*'  I  thank  thee,  love,  that  thou  didst  not  obey!  " 

But  the  red  wine  was  ruling  o'er  his  brain  ; 

The  cruel  wine  that  recked  not  of  my  pain. 

Up  from  the  angry  throng  a  clamor  rose  ; 

The  flattering  sycophants  were  now  my  foes  ; 

And  evil  counsellors  about  the  throne, 

Hiding  the  jealous  joy  they  dared  not  own. 

With  slow,  wise  words,  and  many  a  virtuous  frown, 

Said,  "  Be  the  queen  from  her  estate  cast  down  ! 

Let  her  not  see  the  king's  face  evermore,  - 

Nor  come  within  his  presence  as  of  yore  ; 

So  disobedient  wives  through  all  the  land 

Shall  read  the  lesson,  heed  and  understand." 

Up  spoke  another,  eager  to  be  heard. 

In  royal  councils  fain  to  have  a  word, — 

**  Let  this  commandment  of  the  king  be  writ. 

In  the  law  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  as  is  fit, — 

The  perfect  law  that  man  may  alter  not 

Nor  of  its  bitter  end  abate  one  jot." 

Alas  !  the  king  was  wroth.     Before  his  face 

I  could  not  go  to  plead  my  piteous  case  ; 

But,  pitiless,  with  scarce  dissembled  sneers, 

And  poisoned  words  that  rankled  in  his  ears. 

My  wily  foes,  afraid  to  let  him  pause. 


^6  VASHTI'S   SCROLL 

Brought  the  great  book  that  held  the  Persian  laws, 

And  ere  the  rising  of  the  morrow's  sun, 

My  bitter  doom  was  sealed,  the  deed  was  done  ! 

Scarce  had  two  moons  passed  when  one  dreary  night 

I  sat  within  my  bower  in  woeful  plight. 

When  suddenly  upon  my  presence  stole 

A  muffled  form,  whose  shadow  stirred  my  soul 

I  knew  not  wherefore.     Ere  my  tongue  could  speak, 

Or  with  a  breath  the  brooding  silence  break, 

A  low  voice  murmured  *'  Vashti !  " 

Pale  and  still, 
Hushing  my  heart's  cry  with  an  iron  will, 
"  What  would  the  king  ?  "  I  asked.     No  answer  came, 
But  to  his  sad  eyes  leaped  a  sudden  flame  ; 
With  clasping  arms  he  raised  me  to  his  breast 
And  on  my  brow  and  lips  such  kisses  pressed 
As  one  might  give  the  dead.     I  may  not  tell 
All  the  wild  words  that  I  remember  well. 
Oh !  was  it  joy  or  was  it  pain  to  know 
That  not  alone  I  wept  my  weary  woe  ? 
Alas  !  I  know  not.     But  I  know  to-day — 
If  this  be  sin,  forgive  me,  Heaven,  I  pray  ! — 
That  though  his  eyes  have  never  looked  on  mine 
Since  that  dark  night  when  stars  refused  to  shine, 
And  fair  Queen  Esther  sits,  a  beauteous  bride, 
In  stately  Shushan  at  the  monarch's  side. 
The  king  remembers  Vashti,  even  yet 
Breathing  her  name  sometimes  with  vain  regret. 
Or  murmuring,  haply,  in  a  whisper  low, — 
*'  O  pure,  proud  heart  that  loved  me  long  ago  ! " 


WHAT  MY  FRIEND  SAID  TO  ME 

Trouble  ?  dear  friend,  I  know  her  not.     God  sent 
His  angel  Sorrow  on  my  heart  to  lay 
Her  hand  in  benediction,  and  to  say, 

"  Restore,  O  child,  that  which  thy  Father  lent, 

For  He  doth  now  recall  it,"  long  ago. 

His  blessed  angel  Sorrow !  She  has  walked 
For  years  beside  me,  and  we  two  have  talked 

As  chosen  friends  together.     Thus  I  know 

Trouble  and  Sorrow  are  not  near  of  kin. 
Trouble  distrusteth  God,  and  ever  wears 
Upon  her  brow  the  seal  of  many  cares  ; 

But  Sorrow  oft  hast  deepest  peace  within. 
She  sits  with  Patience  in  perpetual  calm, 
Waiting  till  Heaven  shall  send  the  healing  balm. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A   CEMETERY 

Ye  Pines,  with  solemn  grandeur  crowned, 
Put  on  your  priestly  robes  to-day  ; 

Henceforth  ye  stand  on  holy  ground, 
Where  Love  and  Death  hold  equal  sway. 

Lift  up  to  Heaven  each  crested  head, 
And  raise  your  giant  arms  on  high, 

And  swear  that  o'er  our  slumbering  dead 
Ye  will  keep  watch  and  ward  for  aye. 

For  month  by  month,  and  year  by  year, 
While  shine  the  stars,  and  rolls  the  sea. 

Our  silent  ones  shall  gather  here, 
To  rest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

Here  no  rude  sight  nor  sound  shall  break 
The  calmness  of  their  last,  long  sleep. 

And  Earth  and  Heaven,  for  Love's  sweet  sake, 
Shall  o'er  them  ceaseless  vigils  keep. 

Our  silent  ones  !     Their  very  dust 

Is  precious  in  our  longing  eyes  ; 
O,  guard  ye  well  the  sacred  trust. 

Till  God's  own  voice  shall  bid  them  rise ! 


YESTERDAY   AND   TO-DAY 

But  yesterday  among  us  here, 

One  with  ourselves  in  hope  and  fear  : 

Joying  like  us  in  little  things, 

The  sheen  of  gorgeous  insect  wings, 

The  song  of  bird,  the  hum  of  bee. 

The  white  foam  of  the  heaving  sea. 

But  yesterday  your  simplest  speech, 

Your  lightest  breath,  our  hearts  could  reach  ; 

Your  very  thoughts  were  ours.     Our  eyes 

Found  in  your  own  no  mysteries. 

Your  griefs,  your  joys,  your  prayers,  we  knew, 

The  hopes  that  with  your  girlhood  grew. 

But  yesterday  we  dared  to  say, 

"  'Twere  better  you  should  walk  this  way 

Or  that,  dear  child  !     Do  thus  or  so  ; 

Older  and  wiser  we,  you  know." 

We  gave  you  flowers  and  curled  your  hair, 

And  brought  new  robes  for  you  to  wear. 

To-day  how  far  away  thou  art  I 

In  all  thy  life  we  have  no  part. 

Hast  thou  a  want  ?     We  know  it  not  ; 

Utterly  parted  from  our  lot. 

The  veriest  stranger  is  to  thee 

All  those  who  loved  thee  best  can  be. 


40  YESTERDAY   AND   TO-DAY 

Deaf  to  our  calls,  our  prayers,  our  cries. 
Thou  dost  not  lift  thy  heavy  eyes  ; 
Nor  heed  the  tender  words  that  flow 
From  lips  whose  kisses  thrilled  thee  so 
But  yesterday  !     To-day  in  vain 
We  wait  for  kisses  back  again. 

To-day  no  awful  mystery  hid 
The  dark  and  mazy  past  amid 
Is  half  so  great  as  this  that  lies 
Beneath  the  lids  of  thy  shut  eyes, 
And  in  those  frozen  lips  of  stone, 
Impassive  lips,  that  smile  nor  moan. 

But  yesterday  with  loving  care 

We  petted,  praised  thee,  called  thee  fair ; 

To-day,  oppressed  with  awe,  we  stand 

Before  that  ring-unfettered  hand, 

And  scarcely  dare  to  lift  one  tress 

In  mute  and  reverent  caress. 

But  yesterday  with  us.     To-day 

Where  thou  art  dwelling,  who  can  say  ? 

In  heaven  ?     But  where  ?     Oh  for  some  spell 

To  make  thy  tongue  this  secret  tell ! 

To  break  the  silence  strange  and  deep. 

That  thy  sealed  lips  so  closely  keep  ! 


LYRIC 
FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A   MUSIC-HALL 

No  grand  Cathedral's  vaulted  space 

Where,  through  the  "  dim,  religious  light,' 

Gleam  pictured  saint  and  cross  and  crown. 
We  consecrate  with  song  to-night ; 

No  stately  temple  lifting  high 
Its  dome  against  the  starlit  skies, 

Where  lofty  arch  and  glittering  spire 
Like  miracles  of  beauty  rise. 

Yet  here  beneath  this  humbler  roof 

With  reverent  hearts  and  lips  we  come ; 

Hail,  music  !    Song  and  Beauty,  hail ! 

Henceforth  be  these  poor  walls  your  home. 

Here  speak  to  hearts  that  long  have  yearned 
Your  presence  and  your  spells  to  know  ; 

Here  touch  the  lips  athirst  to  drink 
Where  your  perennial  fountains  flow. 

Here,  where  ouf  glorious  mountain-peaks 
Sublimely  pierce  the  ether  blue. 

Lift  ye  our  souls,  and  bid  them  rise 
In  aspirations  grand  and  true  ! 


42  LYRIC 

O  Music,  Art,  and  Science,  hail ! 

We  greet  you  now  with  glad  acclaims  ; 
Ye  bay-crowned  ones  !  the  listening  air 

Waits  to  re-echo  with  your  names  ; 

Waits  for  your  voices  ringing  clear 
Above  this  weary,  work-day  world  ; 

Waits  till  ye  bid  fair  Truth  arise, 

While  Error  from  her  throne  is  hurled  ! 


WHAT    I    LOST 

Wandering  in  the  dewy  twilight 

Of  a  golden  summer  day, 
When  the  mists  upon  the  mountains 

Flushed  with  purple  splendor  lay  : 
When  the  sunlight  kissed  the  hilltops 

And  the  vales  were  hushed  and  dim. 
And  from  out  the  forest  arches 

Rose  a  holy  vesper  hymn — 
I  lost  something.     Have  you  seen  it, 

Children,  ye  who  passed  that  way  ? 
Did  you  chance  to  find  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  that  summer  day  ? 

It  was  neither  gold  nor  silver. 

Orient  pearl  nor  jewel  rare  ; 
Neither  amethyst  nor  ruby, 

Nor  an  opal  gleaming  fair  ; 
*Twas  no  curious,  quaint  mosaic 

Wrought  by  cunning  master-hands. 
Nor  a  cameo  where  Hebe, 

Crowned  with  deathless  beauty,  stands. 
Yet  have  I  lost  something  precious  ; 

Children,  ye  who  passed  that  way — 
Tell  me,  have  you  found  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  one  summer  day  ? 

Then,  you  say,  it  was  a  casket 
Filled  with  India's  perfumes  rare, 


44  WHAT  I   LOST 

Or  a  tiny  flask  of  crystal 

Meet  the  rose's  breath  to  bear ; 
Or  a  bird  of  wondrous  plumage, 

With  a  voice  of  sweetest  tone, 
That,  escaping  from  my  bosom, 

To  the  greenwood  deep  has  flown. 
Ah  !  not  these,  I  answer  vainly  ; 

Children,  ye  who  passed  that  way, 
Ye  can  never  find  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  that  summer  day  ! 

You  may  call  it  bird  or  blossom  ; 

Name  my  treasure  what  you  will ; 
Here  no  more  its  song  or  fragrance 

Shall  my  soul  with  rapture  fill. 
But,  thank  God  !  our  earthly  losses 

In  no  darksome  void  are  cast ; 
Safely  garnered,  some  to-morrow 

Shall  restore  them  all  at  last. 
Somewhere  in  the  great  hereafter. 

Children,  ye  who  pass  this  way, 
I  shall  find  again  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  one  summer  day  I 


ONCE! 

Once  in  your  sight, 
As  May  buds  swell  in  the  sun's  warm  light, 

So  grew  her  soul, 
Yielding  itself  to  your  sweet  control. 

Once  if  you  spoke, 
Echoing  strains  in  her  heart  awoke, 

Sending  a  thrill 
All  through  its  chambers  sweet  and  still. 

Once  if  you  said, 
"  Sweet,  with  Love's  garland  I  crown  your  head,' 

Ah  !  how  the  rose 
Flooded  her  forehead's  pale  repose  I 

Once  if  your  lip 
Dared  the  pure  sweetness  of  hers  to  sip, 

Softly  and  meek 
Dark  lashes  drooped  on  a  white  rose  cheek  I 

Once  if  your  name 
Some  one  but  whispered,  a  sudden  flame 

Burned  on  her  cheek. 
Telling  a  story  she  would  not  speak  I 

You  do  but  wait 
At  a  sepulchre's  sealed  gate ! 

Her  love  is  dead. 
Bound  hand  and  foot  in  its  narrow  bed. 


46  ONCE 

Why  did  it  die  ? 
Ask  of  your  soul  the  reason  why! 

Question  it  well, 
And  surely  the  secret  it  will  tell. 

But  if  your  heart 
Ever  again  plays  the  lover's  part, 

Let  this  truth  be 
Blent  with  the  solemn  mystery  : 

Pure  flame  aspires  ; 
Downward  flow  not  the  altar  fires  ; 

And  skylarks  soar 
Up  where  the  earth-mists  vex  no  more. 

Now  loose  your  hold 
From  her  white  garment's  spotless  fold, 
And  let  her  pass — 

'Alas!  alas!" 


CATHARINE 

O  WONDROUS  mystery  of  death ! 

I  yield  me  to  thine  awful  sway, 
And  with  hushed  heart  and  bated  breath 

Bow  down  before  thy  shrine  to-day ! 

But  yesterday  these  pallid  lips 

Breathed  reverently  my  humble  name  ; 
These  eyes  now  closed  in  drear  eclipse 

Brightened  with  gratitude's  soft  flame. 

These  poor,  pale  hands  were  swift  to  do 
The  lowliest  service  I  might  ask  ; 

These  palsied  feet  the  long  day  through 
Moved  gladly  to  each  wonted  task. 

O  faithful,  patient,  loving  one, 

Who  from  earth's  great  ones  shrank  afar. 
Canst  bear  the  presence  of  The  Son, 

And  dwell  where  holy  angels  are  ? 

Dost  thou  not  meekly  bow  thine  head. 
And  stand  apart  with  humblest  mien, 

Nor  dare  with  softest  step  to  tread 
The  ranks  of  shining  Ones  between  ? 

Dost  thou  not  kneel  with  downcast  eyes 
The  hem  of  some  white  robe  to  touch, 

While  on  thine  own  meek  forehead  lies 
The  crown  of  her  who  "  lov^d  much  ?  '* 

O  vain  imaginings  !     To-day 

Earth's  loftiest  prince  is  not  thy  peer. 

Come,  Sage  and  Seer  !  mute  homage  pay 
To  this  Pale  Wonder  lying  here  ! 


THE   NAME 

I  KNOW  not  by  what  name  to  call  thee,  thou 
Who  reignest  supreme,  sole  sovereign  of  my  heart  I 
Thou  who  the  lode-star  of  my  being  art, 

Thou  before  whom  my  soul  delights  to  bow  ! 

What  shall  I  call  thee  ?     Teach  me  some  dear  name 
Better  than  all  the  rest,  that  I  may  pour 
All  that  the  years  have  taught  me  of  love's  lore 

In  one  fond  word.     *'  Lover  ?  "     But  that's  too  tame, 

And  "  Friend  "  's  too  cold,  though  thou  art  both  to  me. 
Art  thou  my  King  ?     Kings  sit  enthroned  afar. 
And  crowns  less  meet  for  love  than  reverence  are, 

While  both  my  heart  gives  joyfully  to  thee. 
Art  thou — but,  ah  !  I'll  cease  the  idle  quest  : 
I  cannot  tell  what  name  befits  thee  best ! 


UNDER  THE   PALM-TREES 

We  were  children  together,  you  and  I ; 

We  trod  the  same  paths  in  days  of  old  ; 
Together  we  watched  the  sunset  sky, 

And  counted  its  bars  of  massive  gold. 
And  when  from  the  dark  horizon's  brim 
The  moon  stole  up  with  its  silver  rim, 
And  slowly  sailed  through  the  fields  of  air, 
We  thought  there  was  nothing  on  earth  so  fair. 

You  walk  to-night  where  the  jasmines  grow, 

And  the  Cross  looks  down  from  the  tropic  skies ; 
Where  the  spicy  breezes  softly  blow, 

And  the  slender  shafts  of  the  palm-trees  rise. 
You  breathe  the  breath  of  the  orange-flowers, 
And  the  perfumed  air  of  the  myrtle-bowers  ; 
You  pluck  the  acacia's  golden  balls. 
And  mark  where  the  red  pomegranate  falls. 

I  stand  to-night  on  the  breezy  hill, 

Where  the  pine-trees  sing  as  they  sang  of  yore  ; 
The  north  star  burneth  clear  and  still. 

And  the  moonbeams  silver  your  father's  door. 
I  can  see  the  hound  as  he  lies  asleep, 
In  the  shadow  close  by  the  old  well-sweep, 
And  hear  the  river's  murmuring  flow 
As  we  two  heard  it  long  ago. 


50  UNDER   THE   PALM-TREES 

Do  you  think  of  the  firs  on  the  mountain-side 

As  you  walk  to-night  where  the  palm-trees  grow  ? 
Of  the  brook  where  the  trout  in  the  darkness  hide  ? 

Of  the  yellow  willows  waving  slow  ? 
Do  you  long  to  drink  of  the  crystal  spring, 
In  the  dell  where  the  purple  harebells  swing  ? 
Would  your  pulses  leap  could  you  hear  once  more 
The  sound  of  the  flail  on  the  threshing-floor  ? 

Ah  !  the  years  are  long,  and  the  world  is  wide, 

And  the  salt  sea  rolls  our  hearts  between  ; 
And  never  again  at  eventide 

Shall  we  two  gaze  on  the  same  fair  scene. 
But  under  the  palm-trees  wandering  slow. 
You  think  of  the  spreading  elms  I  know  ; 
And  you  deem  our  daisies  fairer  far 
Than  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  the  tropics  are  I 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING 


Night  and  darkness  over  all ! 
Nature  sleeps  beneath  a  pall  ; 
Not  a  ray  from  moon  or  stars 
Glimmers  through  the  cloudy  bars  ; 
Huge  and  black  the  mountains  stand 
Frowning  upon  either  hand, 
And  the  river,  dark  and  deep, 
Gropes  its  way  from  steep  to  steep. 
Yonder  tree,  whose  young  leaves  played 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
Stretches  out  its  arms  like  one 
Sudden  blindness  hath  undone. 
Pale  and  dim  the  rose-queen  lies 
Robbed  of  all  her  gorgeous  dyes, 
And  the  lily  bendeth  low, 
Mourner  in  a  garb  of  woe. 
Never  a  shadow  comes  or  goes. 
Never  a  gleam  its  glory  throws 
Over  cottage  or  over  hall — 
Darkness  broodeth  over  all  I 


Lo  f  the  glorious  morning  breaks  I 
Nature  from  her  sleep  awakes, 
And,  in  purple  pomp,  the  day 
Bids  the  darkness  flee  away. 


52  NIGHT  AND   MORNING 

Crowned  with  light  the  mountains  stand 

Royally  on  either  hand, 

And  the  laughing  waters  run 

In  glad  haste  to  meet  the  sun. 

Stately  trees,  exultant,  raise 

Their  proud  heads  in  grateful  praise ; 

Flowers,  dew-laden,  everywhere 

Pour  rich  incense  on  the  air. 

And  the  ascending  vapors  rise 

Like  the  smoke  of  sacrifice. 

Birds  are  trilHng,  bees  are  humming, 

Swift  to  greet  the  new  day  coming, 

And  earth's  myriad  voices  sing 

Hymns  of  grateful  welcoming. 

Bursting  from  night's  heavy  thrall, 

Heaven's  own  light  is  over  all ! 


AGNES 

Agnes  !  Agnes  !  is  it  thus 
Thou,  at  last,  dost  come  to  us  ? 
From  the  land  of  balm  and  bloom, 
Blandest  airs  and  sweet  perfume. 
Where  the  jasmine's  golden  stars 
Glimmer  soft  through  emerald  bars, 
And  the  fragrant  orange  flowers 
Fall  to  earth  in  silver  showers, 

Agnes  !  Agnes  ! 
With  thy  pale  hands  on  thy  breast, 
Comest  thou  here  to  take  thy  rest  ? 

Agnes  !  Agnes  !  o'er  thy  grave 
Loud  the  winter  winds  will  rave. 
And  the  snow  fall  fast  around. 
Heaping  high  thy  burial  mound  ; 
Yet,  within  its  soft  embrace. 
Thy  dear  form  and  earnest  face, 
Wrapt  away  from  burning  pain. 
Ne'er  shall  know  one  pang  again. 

Agnes  !  Agnes ! 
Nevermore  shall  anguish  vex  thee, 
Nevermore  shall  care  perplex  thee. 

Agnes !  Agnes  !  wait,  ah  !  wait 
Just  one  moment  at  the  gate. 
Ere  your  pure  feet  enter  in 
Where  is  neither  pain  nor  sin. 


54  AGNES 


Thou  art  blest,  but  how  shall  we 
Bear  the  pang  of  losing  thee  ? 
List !  we  love  thee  !  By  that  word 
Once  thy  heart  of  hearts  was  stirred. 

Agnes  !  Agnes  ! 
By  that  love  we  bid  thee  wait 
Just  one  moment  at  the  gate ! 

Agnes  !  Agnes  !     No  !     Pass  on 
To  the  heaven  that  thou  hast  won ! 
By  thy  life  of  brave  endeavor, 
Up  the  heights  aspiring  ever, 
Whence  thy  voice,  like  clarion  clear. 
Rang  out  words  of  lofty  cheer  ; 
By  thy  laboring  not  in  vain, 
By  thy  martyrdom  of  pain, 

Our  Saint  Agnes — 
From  our  yearning  sight  pass  on 
To  the  rest  that  thou  hast  won ! 


"INTO  THY  HANDS" 

Into  thy  hands,  O  Father  !     Now  at  last, 
Weary  with  struggling  and  with  long  unrest, 

Vext  by  remembrances  of  conflicts  past 
And  by  a  host  of  present  cares  opprest, 

I  come  to  thee  and  cry,  Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Take  thou  the  burden  I  have  borne  too  long. 
Into  thy  hands,  O  mighty,  loving  One, 

My  weakness  gives  its  all,  for  thou  art  strong ! 

For  life — for  death.     I  cannot  see  the  way  ; 

I  blindly  wander  on  to  meet  the  night ; 
The  path  grows  steeper,  and  the  dying  day 

Soon  with  its  shadows  will  shut  out  the  light. 

Hold  thou  my  hand,  O  Father  !     I  am  tired 
As  a  young  child  that  wearies  of  the  road  ; 

And  the  far  heights  toward  which  I  once  aspired 
Have  lost  the  glory  with  which  erst  they  glowed. 

Take  thou  my  life,  and  mold  it  to  thy  will ; 

Into  thy  hands  commit  I  all  my  way  ; 
Fain  would  I  lift  each  cup  that  thou  dost  fill, 

Nor  from  its  brim  my  pale  lips  ever  stay. 

Take  thou  my  life.     I  lay  it  at  thy  feet ; 

And  in  my  death  my  sure  support  be  thou  ; 
So  shall  I  sink  to  slumber  calm  and  sweet. 

And  wake  at  morn  before  thy  face  to  bow  ! 


IDLE  WORDS 


Seeing  two  soft,  starry  eyes 

Darkly  bright  as  midnight  skies, — 

Eyes  prophetic  of  the  power 

Sure  to  be  thy  woman's  dower. 

When  the  years  should  crown  thee  queen 

Of  the  realm  as  yet  unseen, — 

*'  Some  time,  sweet,  those  eyes  shall  make 

Lovers  mad  for  their  sweet  sake  !  " 


II. 


Seeing  tresses,  golden-brown. 
In  a  bright  shower  falling  down 
Over  neck  and  bosom  white 
As  an  angel's  clad  in  light — 
Odorous  tresses  drooping  low 
O'er  a  forehead  pure  as  snow, — 
"  Some  time,  sweet,  in  thy  soft  hair 
Love  shall  set  a  shining  snare  !  " 

III. 

Once  I  said. 
Seeing  lips  whose  crimson  hue 
Mocked  the  roses  wet  with  dew, — 


IDLE   WORDS  57 

Warm,  sweet  lips,  whose  breath  was  balm, — 
Pure,  proud  lips,  serenely  calm, — 
Tender  lips,  whose  smiling  grace 
Lit  with  splendor  all  the  face, — 
"  Sweet,  for  kiss  of  thine  some  day 
Men  will  barter  souls  away  !  " 

IV. 

Idly  said ! 
God  hath  taken  care  of  all 
Joy  or  pain  that  might  befall ! 
Lover's  lip  shall  never  thrill 
At  thy  kisses,  soft  and  still ; 
Lover's  heart  shall  never  break 
In  sore  anguish  for  thy  sake  ; 
Lover's  soul  for  thee  shall  know 
Nor  love's  rapture,  nor  its  woe  ;— 

All  is  said  1 


THE    SPARROW    TO    THE    SKYLARK 

O  SKYLARK,  soaring,  soaring, 

Ere  day  is  well  begun, 
Thy  full,  glad  song  outpouring 

To  greet  the  rising  sun, — 
So  high,  so  high  in  heaven 

Thy  swift  wing  cleaves  the  blue, 
We  sparrows  in  the  hedges 

Can  scarcely  follow  you  ! 

O  strong,  unwearied  singer ! 

By  summer  winds  caressed, 
Among  the  white  clouds  floating 

With  sunshine  on  thy  breast, 
We  hear  thy  clear  notes  dropping 

In  showers  of  golden  rain, 
A  glad,  triumphant  music 

That  hath  no  thought  of  pain  ! 

We  twitter  in  the  hedges  ; 

We  chirp  our  little  songs. 
Whose  low,  monotonous  murmur 

To  homeliest  life  belongs  ; 
We  perch  in  lowly  places, 

We  hop  from  bough  to  bough, 
While  in  the  wide  sky-spaces. 

On  strong  wing  soarest  thou  ! 


THE  SPARROW  TO  THE  SKYLARK  59 

Yet  we — we  share  the  rapture 

And  glory  of  thy  flight — 
Thou'rt  still  a  bird,  O  skylark,— 

Thou  spirit  glad  and  bright ! 
And  ah  !  no  sparrow  knoweth 

But  its  low  note  may  be 
Part  of  earth's  joy  and  gladness 

That  finds  full  voice  in  thee  I 


THE  BELL  OF  ST.  PAUL'S 

The  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  only  sounds  when  the  King  is 
dead.'» 

Toll,  toll,  thou  solemn  bell ! 

A  royal  head  lies  low, 
And  mourners  through  the  palace  halls 

Slowly  and  sadly  go. 
Lift  up  thine  awful  voice. 

Thou,  silent  for  so  long  ! 
Say  that  a  monarch's  soul  has  passed 

To  join  the  shadowy  throng. 

Toll  yet  again,  thou  bell ! 

Mutely  thine  iron  tongue, 
Prisoned  within  yon  lofty  tower, 

For  many  a  year  has  hung. 
But  now  its  mournful  peal 

Startles  a  nation's  ear. 
And  swells  from  listening  shore  to  shore, 

That  the  whole  world  may  hear. 

A  whisper  from  the  past 

Blends  with  each  solemn  tone 
That  from  those  brazen  lips  of  thine 

Upon  the  air  is  thrown. 
Never  had  trumpet's  peal. 

On  clarion  sounding  shrill, 
Such  power  as  that  deep  undertone 

The  listener's  heart  to  thrill. 


THE    BELL   OF   ST.    PAUL'S  6l 

Come,  tell  us  tales,  thou  bell, 

Of  those  of  old  renown, 
Those  sturdy  warrior  kings  who  fought 

For  sceptre  and  for  crown. 
Tell  of  the  lion-hearts 

Whose  pulses  moved  the  world  ; 
Whose  banners  flew  so  swift  and  far, 

O'er  land  and  sea  unfurled  ! 

From  out  the  buried  years, 

From  many  a  vaulted  tomb, 
Whence  neither  pomp  nor  power  could  chase 

The  dim,  sepulchral  gloom, 
Lo,  now,  a  pale,  proud  line, 

They  glide  before  our  eyes  !  — 
Art  thou  a  wizard,  mighty  bell, 

To  bid  the  dead  arise  ? 

But  toll,  toll  on,  thou  bell ! 

Toll  for  the  royal  dead  ; 
Toll — for  the  hand  now  sceptreless  ; 

Toll — for  the  crownless  head  ; 
Toll — for  the  human  heart 

With  all  its  loves  and  woes  ; 
Toll — for  the  soul  that  passes  now 

Unto  its  long  repose  I 


DECEMBER  26,  1910 

A   BALLAD   OF   MAJOR  ANDERSON 

Come,  children,  leave  your  playing   this  dark  and  stormy 

night, 
Shut  fast  the  rattling  window-blinds,  and  make  the  fire  burn 

bright ; 
And  hear  an  old  man's  story,  while  loud  the  fierce  winds 

blow, 
Of  gallant  Major  Anderson  and  fifty  years  ago. 

I  was  a  young  man  then,  boys,  but  twenty-nine  years  old, 
And  all  my    comrades  knew    me   for  a  soldier  brave   and 

bold  ; 
My  eye  was  bright,  my  step  was  firm,  I  measured  six  feet 

two. 
And  I  knew  not  what  it  was  to  shirk  when  there  was  work  to  do. 

We  were  stationed  at  Fort  Moultrie,  in  Charleston  harbor, 

then, 
A  brave  band,  though  a  small  one,  of  scarcely  seventy  men  ; 
And  day  and  night  we  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  foe, 
With  noble  Major  Anderson,  just  fifty  years  ago. 

Were  they  French  or  English,  ask  you  ?  Oh,  neither,  neither, 

child  ! 
We  were   at  peace  with   other  lands,  and   all  the    nations 

smiled 
On  the  stars  and  stripes,  wherever  they  floated  far  and  free. 
And  all  the  foes  we  had  to  meet  we  found  this  side  the  sea. 


DECEMBER  26,    I9IO  63 

But  even  between  brothers  bitter  feuds  will  sometimes  rise, 
And  'twas  the  cloud  of  civil  war  that  darkened  in  the  skies  ; 
I  have  not  time  to  tell  you  how  the  quarrel  first  began, 
Or  how  it  grew,  till  o'er  our  land  the  strife  like  wildfire  ran. 

I  will  not  use  hard  words,  my  boys,  for  I  am  old  and  gray. 
And  I've  learned  it  is  an  easy  thing  for  the  best  to  go  astray  ; 
Some  wrong  there  was  on  either  part,    I  do  not  doubt  at 

all; 
There  are  two  sides  to  a  quarrel — be  it  great  or  be  it  small ! 

You  scarce  believe  me,  children.     Grief  and  doubt  are  in 

your  eyes, 
Fixed  steadily  upon  me  in  wonder  and  surprise  ; 
Don't  forget  to  thank  our  Father,  when  to-night  you  kneel  to 

pray. 
That  an  undivided  people  rule  America  to-day. 

We  were  stationed  at  Fort  Moultrie — but  about  a  mile  away, 
The  battlements  of  Sumter  stood  proudly  in  the  bay  ; 
'Twas  by  far  the  best  position,  as  he  could  not  help   but 

know, 
Our  gallant  Major  Anderson,  just  fifty  years  ago. 

Yes,  'twas  just  after  Christmas,  fifty  years  ago  to-night; 
The  sky  was  calm  and  cloudless,  the  moon  was  large  and 

bright ; 
At  six  o'clock  the  drum  beat  to  call  us  to  parade. 
And  not  a  man  suspected  the  plan  that  had  been  laid. 

But  the  first  thing  a  soldier  learns  is  that  he  must  obey, 
And  that  when  an  order's  given  he  has  not  a  word  to  say  ; 
So  when  told  to  man  the  boats,  not  a  question  did  we  ask, 
But  silently,  yet  eagerly,  began  our  hurried  task. 


64  DECEMBER   26,    19IO 

We  did  a  deal  of  work  that  night,  though  our  numbers  were 

but  few  ; 
We  had  all  our  stores  to  carry,  and  our  ammunition  too  ; 
And  the  guard-ship —  'twas  the  Nina — set  to  watch  us  in  the 

bay, 
Never  dreamed  what  we  were  doing,  though  'twas  almost 

light  as  day. 

We  spiked  the  guns  we  left  behind,  and  cut  the  flag-staff 

down, — 
From  its  top  should  float  no  colors  if  it  might  not  hold  our 

own, — 
Then  we  sailed  away  for  Sumter  as  fast  as  we  could  go, 
With  our  good  Major  Anderson,  just  fifty  years  ago. 

I  never  can  forget,  my  boys,  how  the  next  day,  at  noon. 
The  drums  beat  and  the  band  played  a  stirring  martial  tune, 
And  silently  we  gathered   round  the   flag-staff,  strong  and 

high. 
Forever  pointing  upward  to  God's  temple  in  the  sky. 

Our  noble  Major  Anderson  was  good  as  he  was  brave. 

And  he   knew  without  His  blessing  no  banner   long   could 

wave ; 
So  he  knelt,  with  head  uncovered,  while  the  chaplain  read  a 

prayer, 
And  as  the  last  amen  was  said,  the  flag  rose  high  in  air. 

Then  our  loud  huzzas  rang  out,  far  and  widely  o'er  the  sea  ! 
We  shouted  for  the  stars  and  stripes,  the  standard  of  the 

free ! 
Every  eye  was  fixed  upon   it,  every  heart  beat  warm   and 

fast, 
As  with  eager  lips  we  promised,  to  defend  it  to  the  last  \ 


DECEMBER   26,    IQIO  6$ 

'  Tvvas  a  sight  to  be  remembered,  boys — the  chaplain  with 

his  book, 
Our  leader  humbly  kneeling,  with  his  calm,  undaunted  look  ; 
And  the  officers  and  men,    crushing  tears  they  would    not 

shed, — 
And  the  blue  sea  all  around  us,  and  the  blue  sky  overhead  I 

Now,  go  to  bed,  my  children,  the  old  man's  story's  told, — 

Stir  up  the  fire  before  you  go,  'tis  bitter,  bitter  cold  ; 

And  I'll  tell  you  more  to-morrow  night,  when  loud  the  fierce 

winds  blow, 
Of  gallant  Major  Anderson  and  fifty  years  ago. 


FROM  BATON  ROUGE 

From  the  fierce  conflict  and  the  deadly  fray 
A  patriot  hero  comes  to  us  this  day. 

Greet  him  with  music  and  with  loud  acclaim, 
And  let  our  hills  re-echo  with  his  name. 

Bring  rarest  flowers  their  rich  perfume  to  shed, 
Like  sweetest  incense,  round  the  warrior's  head. 

Let  heart  and  voice  cry  "  welcome,"  and  a  shout, 
Upon  the  summer  air,  ring  gayly  out, 

To  hail  the  hero,  who  from  fierce  affray 
And  deadly  conflict  comes  to  us  this  day. 

Alas  !  alas  !  for  smiles  ye  give  but  tears. 
And  wordless  sorrow  on  each  face  appears. 

And  for  glad  music,  jubilant  and  clear, 
The  tolling  bell,  the  muffled  drum,  we  hear. 

Woe  to  uSf  soldier,  loyal,  tried,  and  brave. 
That  we  have  naught  to  give  thee  but  a  grave. 

Woe  that  the  wreath  that  should  have  decked  thy  brow, 
Can  but  be  laid  upon  thy  coffin  now. 

Woe  that  thou  canst  not  hear  us  when  we  say, — 
"  Hail  to  thee,  brother,  welcome  home  to-day!  " 


FROM   BATON  ROUGE  6/ 

O  God,  we  lift  our  waiting  eyes  to  Thee, 

And  sadly  cry,  how  long  must  these  things  be  ? 

How  long  must  noble  blood  be  poured  like  rain, 
Flooding  our  land  from  mountain  unto  main  ? 

How  long  from  desolated  hearths  must  rise 
The  smoke  of  life's  most  costly  sacrifice  ? 

Our  brothers  languish  upon  beds  of  pain, — 
Father,  O  Father,  have  they  bled  in  vain  ? 

Is  it  for  naught  that  they  have  drunken  up 
The  very  dregs  of  this  most  bitter  cup  ? 

How  long  ?  how  long  ?  O  God !  our  cause  is  just, 
And  in  Thee  only  do  we  put  our  trust. 

As  Thou  didst  guide  the  Israelites  of  old 

Through  the  Red  Sea,  and  through  the  desert  wold, 

Lead  Thou  our  leaders,  and  our  land  shall  be 
For  evermore,  the  land  where  all  are  free  ! 


Hail  and  farewell, — we  whisper  in  one  breath. 
As  thus  we  meet  thee,  hand  in  hand  with  death ! 

God  give  thy  ashes  undisturbed  repose 

Where  drum-beat  wakens  neither  friend  nor  foes  ; 

God  take  thy  spirit  to  eternal  rest. 

And,  for  Christ's  sake,  enroll  thee  with  the  blest ! 


f 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

May  6,  1864 

How  beautiful  was  earth  that  day  ! 

The  far  blue  sky  had  not  a  cloud  ; 
The  river  rippled  on  its  way, 

Singing  sweet  songs  aloud. 

The  delicate  beauty  of  the  s.pring 

Pervaded  all  the  murmuring  air  ; 
It  touched  with  grace  the  meanest  thing 
And  made  it  very  fair. 

The  blithe  birds  darted  to  and  fro, 

The  bees  were  humming  round  the  hive, 
So  happy  in  that  radiant  glow  1 
So  glad  to  be  alive  ! 

And  I  ?     My  heart  was  calmly  blest. 

I  knew  afar  the  war-cloud  rolled 
Lurid  and  dark,  in  fierce  unrest, 
Laden  with  woes  untold. 

But  on  that  day  my  fears  were  stilled  ; 

The  very  air  I  breathed  was  joy  ; 
The  rest  and  peace  my  soul  that  filled 
Had  nothing  of  alloy. 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS  69 

I  took  the  flower  he  loved  the  best, 

The  arbutus, — fairest  child  of  May,— 
And  with  its  perfume  half  oppressed, 
Twined  many  a  lovely  spray 

About  his  picture  on  the  wall ; 

His  eyes  were  on  me  all  the  while, 
And  when  I  had  arranged  them  all 
I  thought  he  seemed  to  smile, 

O  Christ,  be  pitiful !  That  hour 

Saw  him  fall  bleeding  on  the  sod  ; 

And  while  I  toyed  with  leaf  and  flower 

His  soul  went  up  to  God  ! 

For  him  one  pang — and  then  a  crown  ; 

For  him  the  laurels  heroes  wear  ; 
For  him  a  name  whose  long  renown 
Ages  shall  onward  bear. 

For  me  the  cross  without  the  crown  ; 

For  me  the  drear  and  lonely  life  ; 
O  God !  My  sun,  not  his,  went  down 
On  that  red  field  of  strife. 


CHARLEY  OF  MALVERN  HILL 

A  WAR-WORN  soldier,  bronzed  and  seamed 

By  weary  march  and  battle  stroke  ; 
'Twas  thus,  while  leaning  on  his  crutch, 
The  wounded  veteran  spoke, — 

"  The  blue-eyed  boy  of  Malvern  Hill  ! 

A  hero  every  inch  was  he, 
Though  scarcely  larger  than  the  child 
You  hold,  sir,  on  your  knee. 

**  Some  mother's  darling  !     On  that  field 

He  seemed  so  strangely  out  of  place, 
.With  his  pure  brow,  his  shining  hair, 
His  sweet,  unconscious  grace. 

*'  But  not  a  bearded  warrior  there 

Watched  with  a  more  undaunted  eye 
The  blackness  of  the  battle-cloud, 
As  the  fierce  storm  rose  high. 

"  That  morn — ah  !  what  a  morn  was  that  !— 

We  thought  to  send  him  to  the  rear ; 
We  loved  the  lad — and  love,  you  know, 
Is  near  akin  to  fear. 

"  We  knew  that  many  a  gallant  soul 

Must  pass  away  in  one  long  sigh, 
Ere  nightfall.     On  that  bloody  field, 
*Twas  not  for  boys  to  die. 


CHARLEY  OF  MALVERN  HILL        7 1 

**  But  he — could  you  have  seen  him  then, 

As,  with  his  blue  eyes  full  of  fire, 
He  poured  forth  tears  and  pleadings,  half 
Of  shame  and  half  of  ire  ! 

**  *  Oh  !  do  not  bid  me  go  I '  he  cried  ; 

*  I  love  yon  flag  as  well  as  you  ! 
I  did  not  join  your  ranks  to  run 
When  there  is  work  to  do  ! 

"  *  I  did  not  come  to  beat  my  drum 

Only  upon  some  gala  day.' 
The  colonel  shook  his  head,  but  said, 
*  Well,  Charley,  you  may  stay.' 

"  Ah  !  then  his  tears  were  quickly  dried, 

A  few  glad  words  he  strove  to  say  ; 
But  there  was  little  time  to  talk, 
And  hardly  time  to  pray. 

'*For  bitter,  bitter  was  the  strife 

That  raged  that  day  on  Malvern  Hill ; 
Blue  coats  and  gray  in  great  heaps  lay, 
Ere  that  wild  storm  grew  still. 

*  *  At  length  we  charged.     My  very  heart 
Sank  down  within  me,  cold  and  dumb, 
When  to  the  front,  and  far  ahead, 

Rushed  Charley  with  his  drum  ! 

"  Above  the  cannon's  thundering  boom, 

The  din  and  shriek  of  shot  and  shell, 
We  heard  its  clear  peal  rolling  out 
Right  gallantly  and  well. 

"  A  moment's  awful  waiting !     Then 
There  came  a  sullen,  angry  roar, — 


fa.  CHARLEY  OF  MALVERN  HILL 

O  God  !   An  empty  void  remained 
Where  Charley  stood  before. 

*'  What  did  we  then  ?   With  souls  on  fire 

We  swept  upon  the  advancing  foe, 
And  bade  good  angels  guard  the  dust 

O'er  which  no  tears  might  flow !  " 


SUPPLICAMUS 
1864 

O  LAGGARD  Sun  !  make  haste  to  wake 

From  her  long  trance  the  slumbering  earth  ; 

Make  haste  this  icy  spell  to  break, 
That  she  may  give  new  glories  birth  ! 

O  April  rain !  so  soft,  so  warm, 
Bounteous  in  blessing,  rich  in  gifts, 

Drop  tenderly  upon  her  form. 
And  bathe  the  forehead  she  uplifts. 

O  springing  grass  !  make  haste  to  run 
With  swift  feet  o'er  the  meadows  bare  ; 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  through  forest  dun, 
And  where  the  wandering  brooklets  are  ! 

O  sweet  wild  flowers  !  the  darksome  mould 
Hasten  with  subtle  strength  to  rift  ; 

Serene  in  beauty,  meek  yet  bold. 
Your  fair  brows  to  the  sunlight  lift  I 

O  haste  ye  all  !  for  far  away 

In  lonely  beds  our  heroes  sleep, 
O'er  which  no  wife  may  ever  pray, 

Nor  child  nor  mother  ever  weep. 

No  quaintly  carved  memorial  stone 
May  tell  us  that  their  ashes  lie 


74  SUPPLICAMUS 

Where  southern  pines  make  solemn  moan, 
And  wailing  winds  give  sad  reply. 

But  deep  in  dreary,  lonesome  shades, 
On  many  a  barren,  sandy  plain. 

By  rock    pass,  in  tangled  glades, 
And  by  the  rolling,  restless  main  ; 

By  rushing  stream,  by  silent  lake, 
Uncoffined  in  their  lowly  graves, 

Until  the  earth's  last  morn  shall  break, 
Must  sleep  our  unforgotten  braves  ! 

O  sun  !  O  rain  !  O  gentle  dew  ! 

O  fresh  young  grass,  and  opening  flowers  ! 
With  yearning  hearts  we  leave  to  you 

The  holy  task  that  should  be  ours  I 

Light  up  the  darkling  forest's  gloom  ; 

Cover  the  bare,  unsightly  clay 
With  tenderest  verdure,  with  the  bloom, 

The  beauty  and  perfume  of  May  ! 

O  sweet  blue  violets  !  softly  creep 
Beside  the  slumbering  warrior's  bed  ; 

O  roses  !  let  your  red  hearts  leap 
For  joy  your  rarest  sweets  to  shed  ; 

O  humble  mosses  !  such  as  make 

New  England's  woods  and  pastures  fair, 

Over  each  mound,  for  Love's  sweet  sake, 
Spread  your  soft  folds  with  tender  care. 

Dear  Nature,  to  your  loving  breast 
Clasp  our  dead  heroes  !     In  your  arms 

Sweet  be  their  sleep,  serene  their  rest, 
Unmoved  by  Battle's  loud  alarms  ! 


THE   LAST   OF   SIX 

Come  in  ;  you  are  welcome,  neighbor  ;    all  day  I've  been 

alone, 
And  heard  the  wailing,  wintry  wind  sweep  by  with  bitter 

moan  ; 
And  to-night  beside  my  lonely  fire,  I  mutely  wonder  why 
I,  who  once  wept  as  others  weep,  sit  here  with  tearless  eye. 

To-day  this  letter  came  to  me.     At  first  I  could  not  brook 
Upon  the  unfamiliar  lines  by  strangers  penned,  to  look  ; 
The  dread  of  evil  tidings  shook  my  soul  with  wild  alarm — 
But  Harry's  in  the  hospital,  and  has  only  lost  an  arm. 

He  is  the  last— the  last  of  six  brave  boys  as  e'er  were 
seen  ! 

How  short,  to  memory's  vision,  seem  the  years  that  lie  be- 
tween 

This  hour  and  those  most  blessed  ones,  when  round  this 
hearth's  bright  blaze 

They  charmed  their  mother's  heart  and  eye  with  all  their 
pretty  ways  ! 

My  William  was  the  eldest  son,  and  he  was  first  to  go. 
It  did  not  at  all  surprise  me,  for  I  knew  it  would  be  so. 
From  that  fearful  April  Sunday  when  the  news  from  Sumter 

came. 
And  his  lips  grew  white  as  ashes,  while  his  eyes  were  all 

aflame. 


^6  THE   LAST   OF   SIX 

He  sprang  to  join  the  three  months'  men.     I  could  not  say 

him  nay, 
Though  my  heart  stood  still  within  me   when    I   saw  him 

march  away  ; 
At  the  corner  of  the  street  he  smiled,  and  waved  the  flag  he 

bore  ; 
I  never  saw  him  smile  again — he  was  slain  at  Baltimore. 


They  sent  his  body  back  to  me,  and  as  we  stood  around 
His  grave,  beside  his  father's,  in  yonder  burial-ground, 
John  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm  and  whispered,  ''  Mother 

dear, 
I  have  Willy's  work  and  mine  to  do.     I  cannot  loiter  here." 

I  turned  and  looked  at  Paul,  for  he  and  John  were  twins,  you 

know, 
Born  on  a  happy  Christmas,  four-and-twenty  years  ago  ; 
I  looked  upon  them  both,  while  my  tears  fell  down  like 

rain. 
For  I  knew  what  one  had  spoken,  had  been  spoken  by  the 

twain. 

In  a  month  or  more  they  left  me — the  merry,  handsome 

boys, 
Who  had  kept  the  old  house  ringing  with  their  laughter,  fun, 

and  noise. 
Then  James  came  home  to  mind  the  farm  ;   my  younger 

sons  were  still 
Mere  children,  at  their  lessons  in  the  school-house  on  the 

hill. 


0  days  of  weary  waiting  !  O  days  of  doubt  and  dread ! 

1  feared  to  read  the  papers,  or  to  see  the  lists  of  dead ; 


THE  LAST   OF   SIX  7/ 

But  when  full  many  a  battle-storm  had  left  them  both  un- 
harmed, 

I  taught  my  foolish  heart  to  think  the  double  lives  were 
charmed. 

Their  colonel  since  has  told  me  that  no  braver  boys  than 

they 
Ever  rallied  round  the  colors,  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray  ; 
Upon  the  wall  behind  you  their  swords  are  hanging  still — 
For  John  was  killed  at  Fair  Oaks,  and  Paul  at  Malvern 

Hill. 

Then  came  the  dark  days,  darker  than  any  known  before  ; 
There  was  another  call  for  men—"  three  hundred  thousand 

more  ;  " 
I  saw  the  cloud  on  Jamie's  brow  grow  deeper  day  by  day  ; 
I  shrank  before  the  impending  blow,  and  scarce  had  strength 

to  pray. 

And  yet  at  last  I  bade  him  go,  while  on  my  cheek  and 

brow 
His  loving  tears  and  kisses  fell ;  I  feel  them  even  now, 
Though  the  eyes  that  shed  the  tears,  and  the  lips  so  warm 

on  mine 
Are  hidden  under  southern  sands,  beneath  a  blasted  pine  ! 

He  did  not  die  in  battle-smoke,  but  for  a  weary  year 

He  languished  in  close  prison  walls,  a  prey  to  hope  and 
fear; 

I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  think  of  the  fruitless  pangs  he 
bore, 

My  brain  grows  wild  when  in  my  dreams  I  count  his  suffer- 
ings o'er. 

Only  two  left !     I  thought  the  worst  was  surely  over  then  ; 
But  lo  !  at  once  my  school-boy  sons  sprang  up  before  me — 
men ! 


78  THE  LAST  OF  SIX 

They  heard  their  brothers'  martyr  blood  call  from  the  hal- 
lowed ground  ; 
A  loud,  imperious  summons  that  all  other  voices  drowned. 

I  did  not  say  a  single  word.     My  very  heart  seemed  dead. 
What  could  I  do  but  take  the  cup,  and  bow  my    weary 

head 
To  drink  the  bitter  draught  again  ?     I  dared  not  hold  them 

back  ; 
I  would  as  soon  have  tried  to  check  the  whirlwind  on  its 

track. 

You  know  the  rest.     At  Cedar  Creek  my  Frederick  bravely 

fell; 
They  say  his  young  arm  did  its  work  right  nobly  and  right 

well  ; 
His  comrades  breathe  the  hero's  name  with  mingled  love 

and  pride  ; 
I  miss  the  gentle  blue-eyed  boy,  who  frolicked  at  my  side. 

For  me,   I  ne'er  shall  weep  again.      I   think  my  heart  is 

dead  ; 
I,  who  could  weep  for  lighter  griefs,  have  now  no  tears  to 

shed. 
But  read  this  letter,  neighbor.     There  is  nothing  to  alarm. 
For  Harry's  in  the  hospital,  and  has  only  lost  an  arm  ! 


THE   DRUMMER   BOY'S  BURIAL 

All  day  long  the  storm  of  battle  through  the  startled  valley 

swept  ; 
All  night  long  the  stars  in  heaven  o'er  the  slain  sad  vigils 

kept. 

Oh,  the  ghastly,  upturned  faces,  gleaming  whitely  through 

the  night ! 
Oh,  the  heaps  of  mangled  corses  in  that  dim,  sepulchral 

light ! 

One  by  one  the  pale  stars  faded,  and  at  length  the  morning 

broke  ; 
But  not  one  of  all  the  sleepers  on  that  field  of  death  awoke. 

Slowly  passed  the  golden  hours  of  the  long  bright  summer 

day, 
And  upon  the  field  of  carnage  still  the  dead  unburied  lay ; 

Lay  there  stark  and  cold,  but  pleading  with  a  dumb,  un- 
ceasing prayer, 
For  a  little  dust  to  hide  them  from  the  staring  sun  and  air. 

Once  again  the  night  dropped  round  them — night  so  holy 

and  so  calm 
That   the  moonbeams  hushed  the  spirit,  like  the  sound  of 

prayer  or  psalm. 

On  a  couch  of  trampled  grasses,  just  apart  from  all  the  rest, 
Lay  a  fair  young  boy,  with  small  hands  meekly  folded  on  his 
breast. 


80  THE  DRUMMER   BOY'S   BURIAL 

Death  had  touched  him  very  gently,  and  he  lay  as  if  in 

sleep ; 
Even   his   mother  scarce  had  shuddered  at  that   slumber, 

calm  and  deep. 

For  a  smile  of  wondrous  sweetness  lent  a  radiance  to  the 

face, 
And  the  hand  of  cunning  sculptor  could  have  added  naught 

of  grace 

To  the  marble  limbs  so  perfect  in  their  passionless  repose, 
Robbed  of  all  save  matchless  purity  by  hard,  unpitying  foes. 

And  the  broken  drum  beside  him  all  his  life's  short  story 

told; 
How  he  did  his   duty  bravely  till  the  death-tide  o'er  him 

rolled. 

Midnight  came  with  ebon  garments  and  a  diadem  of  stars, 
While  right  upward  in  the  zenith  hung  the  fiery  planet  Mars. 

Hark  !  a  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps  and  of  voices  whispering 
low — 

Was  it  nothing  but  the  young  leaves,  or  the  brooklet's  mur- 
muring flow  ? 

Clinging  closely  to  each  other,  striving  never  to  look  round 
As  they  passed  with  silent  shudder  the  pale  corses  on  the 
ground, 

Came  two  little    maidens — sisters — with   a  light   and  hasty 

tread, 
And  a  look  upon  their  faces,  half  of  sorrow,  half  of  dread. 

And  they  did  not  pause  nor  falter  till,  with  throbbing  hearts, 

they  stood 
Where  the  Drummer-Boy  was  lying  in  that  partial  solitude. 


THE  DRUMMER   BOY  S   BURIAL  8l 

They  had  brought  some  simple  garments  from  their  ward- 
robe's scanty  store, 

And  two  heavy  iron  shovels  in  their  slender  hands  they 
bore. 

Then   they  quickly  knelt    beside   him,    crushing   back   the 

pitying  tears, 
For  they  had  no  time  for  weeping,  nor  for  any  girlish  fears. 

And  they   robed  the  icy  body,  while  no   glow  of  maiden 

shame 
Changed  the  pallor  of  their  foreheads  to  a  flush  of  lambent 

flame. 

For  their  saintly  hearts  yearned  o'er  it  in  that  hour  of  sorest 

need. 
And  they  felt  that  Death  was  holy  and  it  sanctified  the  deed. 

But  they  smiled  and  kissed  each  other  when   their  new, 

strange  task  was  o'er, 
And  the  form  that  lay  before  them  its  unwonted  garments 

wore. 

Then  with  slow  and  weary  labor  a  small  grave  they  hollowed 

out, 
And  they  lined  it  with  the  withered  grass  and  leaves  that  lay 

about. 

But  the  day  was  slowly  breaking  ere  their  holy  work  was 

done. 
And  in  crimson  pomp  the  morning  again  heralded  the  sun. 

And  then  those  little  maidens — they  were  children  of  our 

foes — 
Laid  the  body  of  our  Drummer-Boy  to  undisturbed  repose. 


1 865 

O  DARKEST  Year  !     O  brightest  Year ! 

O  changeful  Year  of  joy  and  woe, 
To-day  we  stand  beside  thy  bier, 
Still  loth  to  let  thee  go  ! 

We  look  upon  thy  brow,  and  say, 

**  How  old  he  is, — how  old  and  worn !  " 
Has  but  a  twelvemonth  passed  away 
Since  thou  wert  newly  born  ? 

So  long  it  seems  since  on  the  air 

The  joy-bells  rang  to  hail  thy  birth — 
And  pale  lips  strove  to  call  thee  fair, 
And  sing  the  songs  of  mirth  ! 

For  dark  the  heavens  that  o'er  thee  hung  ; 
By  stormy  winds  thy  couch  was  rocked  ; 
Thy  cradle-hymn  the  Furies  sung. 

While  sneering  Demons  mocked ! 

We  held  our  very  breath  for  dread  ; 

Shadowed  by  clouds,  that,  like  a  pall, 
Darkened  the  blue  sky  overhead, 
And  night  hung  over  all. 

But  thou  wert  better  than  our  fears, 

And  bade  our  land's  long  anguish  cease  ; 
And  gave  us,  O  thou  Year  of  years, 
The  costly  pearl  of  Peace  ! 


i865  Ss 

So  dearly  bought !     By  precious  blood 

Of  patriot  heroes — sire  and  son — 

And  that  of  him,  the  pure  and  good, 

Our  wearied,  martyred  One  ; 

Who  bore  for  us  the  heavy  load —  ^ 

The  cross  our  hands  upon  him  laid  ; 
Who  trod  for  us  the  toilsome  road 
Meekly,  yet  undismayed ! 

And  for  that  gift — although  thy  graves 
Lie  thick  beneath  December's  snow, 
Though  every  hamlet  mourns  its  braves, 
And  bears  its  weight  of  woe — 

We  bless  thee  !     Yet,  O  bounteous  year, 

For  more  than  Peace  we  thank  thee  now, 
As  bending  o'er  thine  honored  bier. 
We  crown  thy  pallid  brow  ! 

We  bless  thee,  though  we  scarcely  dare 

Give  to  our  new-born  joy  a  tongue  ; 
O  mighty  Year,  upon  the  air 

Thy  voice  triumphant  rung. 

Even  in  death  !  and  at  the  sound, 

From  myriad  limbs  the  fetters  fell 
Into  the  dim  and  vast  profound. 

While  tolled  thy  passing  bell ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  storied  Year ! 

Thou  wondrous  Year  of  joy  and  gloom  ! 
With  grateful  hearts  we  crown  thee,  ere 
We  lay  thee  in  thy  tomb  ! 


OUR  'FLAGS    AT    THE    CAPITOL 

Remove  th'em  not !  Above  our  fallen  braves 
Nature  not  yet  her  perfect  work  hath  wrought  ; 

Scarce  has  the  turf  grown  green  upon  their  graves, 
The  martyr  graves  for  whose  embrace  they  fought. 

The  wounds  of  our  long  conflict  are  not  healed  ; 

Our  land's  fair  face  is  seamed  with  many  a  scar  ; 
And  woeful  sights,  on  many  a  battle-field, 

Show  ghastly  grim  beneath  the  evening  star. 

Still  does  the  sad  Earth  tremble  with  affright, 
Lest  she  the  tread  of  arm^d  hosts  should  feel 

Once  more  upon  her  bosom.     Still  the  Night 

Hears,  in  wild  dreams,  the  cannon's  thundering  peal. 

Still  do  the  black-robed  mothers  come  and  go  ; 

Still  do  lone  wives  by  dreary  hearthstones  weep  ; 
Still  does  a  Nation,  in  her  pride  and  woe. 

For  her  dead  sons  a  mournful  vigil  keep. 

Ah,  then,  awhile  delay  !     Remove  ye  not 

These  drooping  banners  from  their  place  on  high  ; 

They  make  of  each  proud  hall  a  hallowed  spot, 

Where  Truth  must  dwell  and  Freedom  cannot  die. 

Now  slowly  waving  in  this  tranquil  air, 

What  wondrous  eloquence  is  in  their  speech  ! 

No  prophet  "  silver  tongued,"  no  poet  rare, 

Even  in  dreams  may  hope  such  heights  to  reach. 


-OUR   FLAGS   AT   THE   CAPITOL  8$ 

They  tell  of  Life  that  calmly  looked  on  Death — 
Of  peerless  valor  and  of  trust  sublime — 

Of  costly  sacrifice,  of  holiest  faith, 

Of  lofty  hopes  that  ended  not  with  Time. 

Oh  !  each  worn  fold  is  hallowed  !  set  apart 

To  minister  unto  us  in  our  needs — 
To  bear  henceforth  to  many  a  fainting  heart, 

The  cordial  wine  of  noble  thoughts  and  deeds. 

Then  leave  them  yet  awhile  where,  day  by  day. 
The  lessons  that  they  teach,  your  souls  may  learn  ; 

So  shall  ye  work  for  righteousness  alway, 
And  for  its  faithful  service  ever  yearn. 

Now  may  God  bless  our  land  for  evermore  ! 

And  from  all  strife  and  turmoil  grant  surcease ; 
While  from  the  mountains  to  the  farthest  shore 

Accordant  voices  softly  whisper — Peace ! 


MY    MOCKING-BIRD 

Mocking-bird  !  mocking-bird !  swinging  high 

Aloft  in  your  gilded  cage, 
The  clouds  are  hurrying  over  the  sky, 

The  wild  winds  fiercely  rage. 
But  soft  and  warm  is  the  air  you  breathe 
Up  there  with  the  tremulous  ivy  wreath, 
And  never  an  icy  blast  can  chill 
The  perfumed  silence  sweet  and  still. 

Mocking-bird  !  mocking-bird  !  from  your  throat 

Breaks  forth  no  flood  of  song, 
Nor  even  one  perfect  golden  note, 

Triumphant,  glad,  and  strong  ! 
But  now  and  then  a  pitiful  wail, 
Like  the  plaintive  sigh  of  the  dying  gale, 
Comes  from  that  arching  breast  of  thine 
Swinging  up  there  with  the  ivy-vine. 

Mocking-bird  !  mocking-bird  !  well  I  know 

Your  heart  is  far  away. 
Where  the  golden  stars  of  the  jasmine  glow, 

And  the  roses  bloom  alvvay  ! 
For  your  cradle-nest  was  softly  made 
In  the  depth  of  a  blossoming  myrtle's  shade  ; 
And  you  heard  the  chant  of  the  southern  seas 
Borne  inland  by  the  favoring  breeze. 


MY   MOCKING-BIRD  8/ 

But,  ah,  my  beautiful  mocking-bird ! 

Should  I  bear  you  back  again, 
Never  would  song  of  yours  be  heard 

Echoing  through  the  glen. 
For  once,  ah  !  once  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
You  waked  to  the  roar  of  the  deadly  fray, 
When  the  terrible  clash  of  armed  foes 
Startled  the  vale  from  its  dim  repose. 

At  first  you  sat  on  a  swaying  bough, 

Mocking  the  bugle's  blare, 
Fearless  and  free  in  the  fervid  glow 

Of  the  heated,  sulphurous  air. 
Your  voice  rang  out  like  a  trumpet's  note. 
With  a  martial  ring  in  its  upward  float, 
And  stern  men  smiled,  for  you  seemed  to  be 
Cheering  them  on  to  victory  ! 

But  at  length,  as  the  awful  day  wore  on, 

You  flew  to  a  tree-top  high. 
And  sat  like  a  spectre  grim  and  wan. 
Outlined  against  the  sky  ; 
Sat  silently  watching  the  fiery  fray 
Till,  heaps  upon  heaps,  the  Blue  and  Gray 
Lay  together,  a  silent  band. 
Whose  souls  had  passed  to  the  shadowy  land. 

Ah,  my  mocking-bird  !  swinging  there 

Under  the  ivy-vine, 
You  still  remember  the  bugle's  blare. 

And  the  blood  poured  forth  like  wine. 
The  soul  of  song  in  your  gentle  breast 
Died  in  that  hour  of  fierce  unrest, 
When  like  a  spectre  grim  and  wan, 
You  watched  to  see  how  the  strife  went  on. 


COMING   HOME 

When  the  winter  winds  were  loud, 
And  Earth  wore  a  snowy  shroud, 
Oft  our  darling  wrote  to  us, 
And  the  words  ran  ever  thus — 
**  I  am  coming  in  the  spring  ! 
With  the  mayflower's  blossoming. 
With  the  young  leaves  on  the  tree, 
O  my  dear  ones,  look  for  me  !  " 

And  she  came.     One  dreary  day, 
When  the  skies  were  dull  and  gray. 
Softly  through  the  open  door 
Our  beloved  came  once  more. 
Came  with  folded  hands  that  lay 
Very  quietly  alway — 
Came  with  heavy-lidded  eyes. 
Lifted  not  in  glad  surprise. 

Not  a  single  word  she  spoke  ; 
Laugh  nor  sigh  her  silence  broke 
As  across  the  quiet  room. 
Darkening  in  the  twilight  gloom. 
On  she  passed  in  stillest  guise, 
Calm  as  saint  in  Paradise, 
To  the  spot  where — woe  betide  ! — 
Four  years  since  she  stood  a  bride. 


COMING   HOME  89 

Then,  you  think,  we  sprang  to  greet  her — 
Sprang  with  outstretched  hands,  to  meet  her  ; 
Clasped  her  in  our  arms  once  more, 
As  in  happy  days  of  yore  ; 
Poured  warm  kisses  on  her  cheek, 
Passive  lips  and  forehead  meek, 
Till  the  barrier  melted  down 
That  had  thus  between  us  grown. 

Ah  no  ! — Darling,  did  you  know 
When  we  bent  above  you  so  ? 
When  our  tears  fell  down  like  rain, 
And  our  hearts  were  wild  with  pain  ? 
Did  you  pity  us  that  day. 
Even  as  holy  angels  may 
Pity  mortals  here  below. 
While  they  wonder  at  their  woe  ? 

Who  can  tell  us  ?     Word  nor  sign 
Came  from  those  pale  lips  of  thine  ; 
Loving  hearts  and  yearning  breast 
Lay  in  coldest,  calmest  rest. 
Is  thy  Heaven  so  very  fair 
That  thou  dost  forget  us  there  ? 
Speak,  beloved !     Woe  is  me 
That  in  vain  I  call  on  thee  I 


WAKENING   EARLY 

In  loving  jest  you  wrote — "Ah,  me  ! 
My  babe's  blue  eyes  are  fair  to  see  ; 
And  sweet  his  cooing  love-notes  be 
That  waken  me  too  early  !  " 

Oh !  would  to  God,  beloved,  to-day 
That  merry  shout  or  gleeful  play 
Might  drive  your  heavy  sleep  away, 
And  bid  you  waken  early. 

But  vain  are  all  our  prayers  and  cries  ; 
From  your  low  bed  you  will  not  rise  ; 
No  kisses  falling  on  your  eyes, 

Can  waken  you  right  early. 

Bright  are  the  skies  above  your  bed, 
And  through  the  elm-boughs  overhead 
Are  golden  sunbeams  softly  shed. 

That  wake  you  late  nor  early. 

Beside  you  through  these  summer  days 
The  murmuring  fountain,  as  it  plays, 
Fills  the  soft  air  with  diamond  sprays, 
But  does  not  wake  you  early  ! 

We  bring  the  flowers  you  loved  so  well, 
The  pure  white  rose  and  lily  bell ; 
Their  sweets  break  not  this  fearful  spell ; 
They  do  not  wake  you  early  ! 


WAKENING  EARLY  91 

We  sing  your  songs  ;  we  pause  to  hear 
Your  bird-like  voice  rise  full  and  clear  ; 
Ah  !  dull  and  heavy  is  your  ear  ; 
We  cannot  wake  you  early. 

You  will  not  wake  ?     Then  may  your  sleep, 
If  it  be  long,  be  calm  and  deep  ; 
Thank  God,  the  eyes  forget  to  weep 
That  do  not  waken  early  ! 


BLEST 

Dec.   1865 

Sinking  to  thine  eternal  rest, 
O  dying  Year  !  I  call  thee  blest; 
Blest  as  no  coming  year  may  be 
This  side  of  vast  Eternity ! 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  thy  brow  is  worn  ; 
Thine  arms  are  weary,  that  have  borne 
The  heaviest  burdens  ever  laid 
On  any,  since  the  world  was  made. 

But  thou  didst  know  her  whom  to-day 
My  fond  heart  mourns,  and  must  alway  ; 
She  loved  thee,  claimed  thee,  called  thee  dear. 
Hailing  with  joy  the  glad  New  Year  ! 

Thou  didst  behold  her,  fair  and  good, 
The  perfect  flower  of  womanhood  ; 
Simple  and  pure  in  thought  and  deed. 
Yet  strong  in  every  hour  of  need. 

Ah !  other  years  shall  come  and  go, 
Bidding  the  sweet  June  roses  blow  ; 
But  never  on  their  yearning  eyes 
Shall  her  fair  presence  once  arise  ! 

The  Spring  shall  miss  her,  and  the  long. 
Bright  Summer  days  hear  not  her  song ; 


BLEST  93 

And  hoary  Winter,  draped  in  snow, 
Finding  her  not,  shall  haste  to  go  ! 

Therefore,  Old  Year,  I  call  thee  blest, 
Thus  sinking  to  eternal  rest ; 
Blest  as  no  other  Year  may  be 
This  side  of  vast  Eternity  I 


HELEN 

Dear  Helen,  if  thine  earnest  eyes, 
So  deeply  blue,  so  darkly  bright, 

Look  downward  from  the  azure  skies 
That  hide  thee  from  my  yearning  sight  i 

Think  not,  because  my  days  go  on 
Just  as  they  did  when  thou  wert  here, 

Sometimes  in  shade,  sometimes  in  sun, 
From  month  to  month,  from  year  to  year. 

That  I  forget  thee  !    Fresh  and  green 
Over  each  grave  the  grass  must  grow 

In  God's  good  time,  and,  all  unseen. 
The  violets  take  deep  root  below. 

But  yet  the  grave  itself  remains 
Beneath  the  verdure  and  the  bloom  ; 

And  all  kind  Nature's  loving  pains 
Can  but  conceal  the  enduring  tomb. 

I  work,  1  read,  I  sing,  I  smile, 

I  train  my  vines  and  tend  my  flowers  ; 

But  under  thoughts  of  thee,  the  while. 
Haunt  me  through  all  the  passing  hours. 

And  still  my  heart  cries  out  for  thee, 

As  it  must  cry  till  life  is  past, 
And  in  some  land  beyond  the  sea 

I  meet  thy  clasping  hand  at  last ! 


"PRO    PATRIA" 


THE   DEAD  CENTURY 


I. 


Lo  I  we  come 
Bearing  the  Century,  cold  and  dumb  I 
Folded  above  the  mighty  breast 
Lie  the  hands  that  have  earned  their  rest ; 
Hushed  are  the  grandly  speaking  lips  ; 
Closed  are  the  eyes  in  drear  eclipse  ; 
And  the  sculptured  limbs  are  deathly  still, 
Responding  not  to  the  eager  will, 

As  we  come 
Bearing  the  Century,  cold  and  dumb ! 


11. 


Lo !  we  wait 
Knocking  here  at  the  sepulchre's  gate  I 
Souls  of  the  ages  passed  away, 
A  mightier  joins  your  ranks  to-day  ; 
Open  your  doors  and  give  him  room, 
Buried  Centuries,  in  your  tomb  ! 
For  calmly  under  this  heavy  pall 
Sleepeth  the  kingliest  of  ye  all, 

While  we  wait 
At  the  sepulchre's  awful  gate  ! 


98  THE  DEAD   CENTURY 


III. 


Yet — pause  here, 
Bending  low  o'er  the  narrow  bier! 
Pause  ye  awhile  and  let  your  thought 
Compass  the  work  that  he  hath  wrought  ; 
Look  on  his  brow  so  scarred  and  worn  ; 
Think  of  the  weight  his  hands  have  borne ; 
Think  of  the  fetters  he  hath  broken, 
Of  the  mighty  words  his  lips  have  spoken 

Who  lies  here 
Dead  and  cold  on  a  narrow  bier ! 

IV, 

Ere  he  goes 
Silent  and  calm  to  his  grand  repose — 
While  the  Centuries  in  their  tomb 
Crowd  together  to  give  him  room, 
Let  us  think  of  the  wondrous  deeds ' 
Answering  still  to  the  world's  great  needs, 
Answering  still  to  the  world's  wild  prayer, 
He  hath  been  first  to  do  and  dare  ! 

Ah  !  he  goes 
Crowned  with  bays  to  his  last  repose. 

V. 

When  the  earth 
Sang  for  joy  to  hail  his  birth, 
Over  the  hill-tops,  faint  and  far, 
Glimmered  the  light  of  Freedom's  star. 
Only  a  poor,  pale  torch  it  seemed — 
Dimly  from  out  the  clouds  it  gleamed — 


THE   DEAD   CENTURY  99 

Oft  to  the  watcher's  eye  'twas  lost 

Like  a  flame  by  fierce  winds  rudely  tossed. 

Scarce  could  Earth 
Catch  one  ray  when  she  hailed  his  birth  ! 

VI. 

But  erelong 
His  young  voice,  like  a  clarion  strong, 
Rang  through  the  wilderness  far  and  free, 
Prophet  and  herald  of  good  to  be  ! 
Then  with  a  shout  the  stalwart  men 
Answered  proudly  from  mount  and  glen, 
Till  in  the  brave,  new,  western  world 
Freedom's  banners  were  wide  unfurled  ! 

And  ere  long 
The  Century's  voice,  like  a  clarion  strong, 

VII. 

Cried,  "  O  Earth, 
Paeans  sing  for  a  Nation's  birth  ! 
Shout  hosannas,  ye  golden  stars. 
Peering  through  yonder  cloudy  bars ! 
Burn,  O  Sun,  with  a  clearer  beam  ! 
Shine,  O  Moon,  with  a  softer  gleam  ! 
Join,  ye  winds,  in  the  choral  strain  ! 
Swell,  rolling  seas,  the  glad  refrain, 

While  the  Earth 
Paeans  sings  for  a  Nation's  birth  !  " 

VIII. 

Ah  !  he  saw — 
This  young  prophet,  with  solemn  awe — 


lOO  THE  DEAD   CENTURY 

How,  after  weary  pain  and  sin, 
Strivings  without  and  foes  within. 
Fruitless  prayings  and  long  suspense, 
And  toil  that  bore  no  recompense — 
After  peril  and  blood  and  tears, 
Honor  and  Peace  should  crown  the  years  ! 

This  he  saw 
While  his  heart  thrilled  with  solemn  awe. 


IX. 


His  clear  eyes, 
Gazing  forward  in  glad  surprise, 
Saw  how  our  land  at  last  should  be 
Truly  the  home  of  the  brave  and  free  ! 
Saw  from  the  old  world's  crowded  streets. 
Pestilent  cities,  and  close  retreats. 
Forms  gaunt  and  pallid  with  famine  sore 
Flee  in  hot  haste  to  our  happy  shore, 

Their  sad  eyes 
Widening  ever  in  new  surprise. 


X. 


From  all  lands 
Thronging  they  come  in  eager  bands  ; 
Each  with  the  tongue  his  mother  spoke  ; 
Each  with  the  songs  her  voice  awoke  ; 
Each  with  his  dominant  hopes  and  needs, 
Alien  habits  and  varying  creeds. 
Bringing  strange  fictions  and  fancies  they  came, 
Calling  old  truths  by  a  different  name. 

When  the  lands 
Sent  their  sons  hither  in  thronging  bands. 


THE   DEAD    CENTURY  1 01 


XI. 

But  the  Seer — 
This  dead  Century  lying  here — 
Rising  out  of  this  chaos,  saw 
Peace  and  Order  and  Love  and  Law ! 
Saw  by  what  subtle  alchemy 
Basest  of  metals  at  length  should  be 
Transmuted  into  the  shining  gold, 
Meet  for  a  king  to  have  and  hold. 

Ah !  great  Seer  ! 
This  pale  Century  lying  here  ! 

XII. 

So  he  taught 
Honest  freedom  of  speech  and  thought ; 
Taught  that  Truth  is  the  grandest  thing 
Painter  can  paint,  or  poet  sing  ; 
Taught  that  under  the  meanest  guise 
It  marches  to  deeds  of  high  emprise  ; 
Treading  the  paths  the  prophets  trod 
Up  to  the  very  mount  of  God  ! 

Truth,  he  taught. 
Claims  full  freedom  of  speech  and  thought. 

XIII. 

Bearing  long 
Heavy  burdens  of  hate  and  wrong, 
Still  has  the  arm  of  the  Century  been 
Waging  war  against  crime  and  sin. 
Still  has  he  plead  humanity's  cause  ; 
Still  has  he  prayed  for  equal  laws  ; 


I02  THE   DEAD    CENTURY 

Still  has  he  taught  that  the  human  race 
Is  one  in  despite  of  hue  or  place, 

Even  though  long 
It  has  wrestled  with  hate  and  wrong. 

XIV. 

And  at  length — 
A  giant  arising  in  his  strength — 
The  fetters  of  serf  and  slave  he  broke, 
Smiting  them  off  by  a  single  stroke  ! 
Over  the  Muscovite's  waste  of  snows, 
Up  from  the  fields  where  the  cotton  grows, 
Clearly  the  shout  of  deliverance  rang. 
When  chattel  and  serf  to  manhood  sprang, 

As  at  length 
The  giant  rose  up  in  resistless  strength. 


XV. 

Far  apart — 
Each  alone  like  a  lonely  heart — • 
Sat  the  Nations,  until  his  hand 
Wove  about  them  a  wondrous  band  ; 
Wrought  about  them  a  mighty  chain 
Binding  the  mountains  to  the  main  ! 
Distance  and  time  rose  dark  between 
Islands  and  continents  still  unseen, 

While  apart 
None  felt  the  throb  of  another's  heart. 

XVI. 

But  to-day 
Time  and  space  hath  he  swept  away  ! 


THE   DEAD    CENTURY  I03 

Side  by  side  do  the  Nations  sit 
By  ties  of  brotherhood  closer  knit  ; 
Whispers  float  o'er  the  rolling  deep  ; 
Voices  echo  from  steep  to  steep  ; 
Nations  speak,  and  the  quick  replies 
Fill  the  earth  and  the  vaulted  skies ; 

For  to-day 
Time  and  distance  are  swept  a-.vay. 

XVII. 

If  strange  thrills 
Quicken  Rome  on  her  seven  hills  ; 
If  afar  on  her  sultry  throne 
India  wails  and  makes  her  moan  ; 
If  the  eagles  of  haughty  France 
Fall  as  the  Prussian  hosts  advance, 
All  the  continents,  all  the  lands, 
Feel  the  shock  through  their  clasped  hands. 

And  quick  thrills 
Stir  the  remotest  vales  and  hills. 


XVIII. 

Yet  these  eyes, 
Dark  on  whose  lids  Death's  shadow  lies, 
Let  their  far-reaching  vision  rest 
Not  alone  on  the  mountain's  crest  ; 
Nor  did  these  feet  with  stately  tread 
Follow  alone  where  the  Nations  led ; 
Nor  these  pale  hands,  so  weary- worn, 
Minister  but  where  States  were  born  ! — 

These  clear  eyes. 
Soft  on  whose  lips  Death's  slumber  lies, 


IC4  THE   DEAD   CENTURY 


XIX. 

Turned  their  gnze, 
Earnest  and  pitiful,  on  the  ways 
Where  the  poor,  burdened  sons  of  toil 
Earned  their  bread  amid  dust  and  moil. 
Saw  the  dim  attics  where,  day  by  day, 
Women  were  stitching  their  Hves  away, 
Bending  low  o'er  the  slender  steel 
Till  heart  and  brain  began  to  reel, 

And  their  days 
Stretched  on  and  on  in  a  dreary  maze. 


XX. 

Then  he  spoke  ; 
Lo  !  at  once  into  being  woke 
Muscles  of  iron,  arms  of  steel. 
Nerves  that  never  a  thrill  could  feel ! 
Wheels  and  pulleys  and  whirling  bands 
Did  the  work  of  the  weary  hands, 
And  tireless  feet  moved  to  and  fro 
Where  the  aching  limbs  were  wont  to  go, 

When  he  spoke 
And  all  his  sprites  into  being  woke. 

XXI. 

Do  you  say 
He  was  no  saint  who  has  passed  away  ? 
Saint  or  sinner,  he  did  brave  deeds 
Answering  still  to  humanity's  needs  ! 
Songs  he  hath  sung  that  shall  live  for  aye ; 
Words  he  hath  uttered  that  ne'er  shall  die  ; 


THE   DEAD    CENTURY  105 

Richer  the  world  than  when  the  earth 
Sang  for  joy  to  hail  his  birth, 

Even  though  you  say 
He  was  no  saint  whom  we  sing  to-day. 

XXII. 

Lo !  we  wait 
Knocking  here  at  the  sepulchre's  gate  ! 
Souls  of  the  Ages  passed  away, 
A  mightier  joins  your  ranks  to-day  ; 
Open  your  doors,  ye  royal  dead, 
And  welcome  give  to  this  crowned  head  I 
For  calmly  under  this  sable  pall 
Sleepeth  the  kingliest  of  ye  all, 

While  we  wait 
At  the  sepulchre's  awful  gate  ! 

XXIII. 

Give  him  room 
Proudly,  Centuries  !  in  your  tomb. 
Now  that  his  weary  work  is  done. 
Honor  and  rest  he  well  hath  won. 
Let  him  who  is  first  among  you  pay 
Homage  to  him  who  comes  this  day, 
Bidding  him  pass  to  his  destined  place, 
Noblest  of  all  his  noble  race  ! 

Make  ye  room 
For  the  kingly  dead  in  the  silent  tomb ! 


THE  RIVER   OTTER 

A  FRAGMENT 

A  HUNDRED  times  the  Summer's  fragrant  blooms 

Have  laden  all  the  air  with  sweet  perfumes  ; 

A  hundred  times,  along  the  mountain-side, 

Autumn  has  flung  his  crimson  banners  wide  ; 

A  hundred  times  has  kindly  Winter  spread 

His  snowy  mantle  o'er  the  violet's  bed  ; 

A  hundred  times  has  Earth  rejoiced  to  hear 

The  Spring's  light  footsteps  in  the  forest  sere, 

Since  on  yon  grassy  knoll  the  quick,  sharp  stroke 

Of  the  young  woodman's  axe  the  silence  broke. 

Not  then  did  these  encircling  hills  look  down 

On  quaint  old  farmhouse,  or  on  steepled  town. 

No  church-spires  pointed  to  the  arching  skies  ; 

No  wandering  lovers  saw  the  moon  arise  ; 

No  childish  laughter  mingled  with  the  song 

Of  the  fair  Otter,  as  it  flowed  along 

As  brightly  then  as  now.     Ah  !  little  recked 

The  joyous  river,  when  the  sunshine  flecked 

Its  dancing  waters,  that  no  human  eye 

Gave  it  glad  welcome  as  it  frolicked  by  ! 

The  long,  uncounted  years  had  come  and  flown, 

And  it  had  still  swept  on,  unseen,  unknown, 

Biding  its  time.     No  minstrel  sang  its  praise, 

No  poet  named  it  in  immortal  lays. 

It  played  no  part  in  legendary  lore. 

And  young  Romance  knew  not  its  winding  shore. 


THE   RIVER   OTTER  10/ 

But  in  her  own  loveliness  Nature  is  glad, 

And  little  she  cares  for  man's  smile  or  his  frown  ; 
In  the  robes  of  her  royalty  still  she  is  clad, 

Though  his  eye  may  behold  not  her  sceptre  or  crown  ! 
And  over  our  beautiful  Otter  the  trees 
Swayed  lightly  as  now  in  the  frolicsome  breeze  ; 
And  the  tremulous  violet  lifted  an  eye 
As  blue  as  its  own  to  the  laughing  blue  sky. 

The  harebell  trembled  on  its  stem 

Down  where  the  rushing  waters  gleam, 

A  sapphire  on  the  broidered  hem 
Of  some  fair  Naiad  of  the  stream. 

The  buttercups,  bright-eyed  and  bold. 

Held  up  their  chalices  of  gold 

To  catch  the  sunshine  and  the  dew, 

Gayly  as  those  that  bloom  for  you. 

And  deep  within  the  forest  shade, 

Where  broadest  noon  mere  twilight  made, 

Ten  thousand  small,  sweet  censers  swung, 

And  tiny  bells  by  zephyrs  rung, 

Made  tinkling  music  till  the  day 

In  solemn  splendor  died  away. 

The  woods  were  full  of  praise  and  prayer, 

Although  no  human  tongue  was  there  ; 

For  every  pine  and  hemlock  sung 

The  grand  cathedral  aisles  among. 

And  every  flower  that  gemmed  the  sod 

Looked  up  and  whispered,  *'  Thou  art  God." 

The  birds  sung  as  they  sing  to-day, 

A  song  of  love  and  joy  alway. 

The  brown  thrush  from  its  golden  throat 

Poured  out  its  long,  melodious  note  ; 

The  pigeons  cooed  ;  the  veery  threw 

Its  mellow  thrill  from  spray  to  spray  ; 

The  wild  night-hawk  its  trumpet  blew, 


I08  THE   RIVER   OTTER 

And  the  owl  cried,  "  Tu  whit,  tu  whoo," 

From  set  of  sun  to  break  of  day. 

The  partridge  reared  her  fearless  brood 

Safe  in  the  darkling  solitude. 

And  the  bald  eagle  built  its  nest 

High  on  the  tall  cliff's  craggy  crest. 

And  often,  when  the  still  moonlight 

Made  all  the  lonely  valley  bright, 

Down  from  the  hills  its  thirst  to  slake, 

The  deer  trod  softly  through  the  brake  ; 

While  far  away  the  spotted  fawn 

Waited  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 

And  trembled  when  the  panther's  scream 

Startled  it  from  a  troubled  dream. 

The  black  bear  roamed  the  forest  wide  ; 

The  fierce  wolf  tracked  the  mountain-side  ; 

The  wild-cat's  silent,  stealthy  tread 

Was,  even  there,  a  fear  and  dread  ; 

The  red  fox  barked — a  strange,  weird  sound, 

That  woke  the  slumbering  echoes  round  ; 

And  the  burrowing  mink  and  otter  hid 

In  their  holes  the  tangled  roots  amid. 

Lords  of  their  limitless  domain. 

Of  hill  and  dale,  of  mount  and  plain. 

The  wild  things  dreamed  not  of  the  hour 

When  they  should  own  their  Master's  power ! 


PAST    AND    PRESENT 

(Driftwood) 

Grand,  heroic,  true, 
Faithful  and  brave  thine  earnest  work  to  do, 
O  glorious  present !  we  rejoice  in  thee, 
Thou  noble  nurse  of  great  deeds  yet  to  be  ! 
Hast  thou  not  shown  us  that  our  mother  Earth 
Still,  in  exultant  joy,  gives  heroes  birth  ? 
Do  not  the  old  romances  that  our  youth, 
Revered  and  honored  as  the  truest  truth, 
Grow  pale  and  dim  before  the  facts  sublime 
Thy  pen  has  written  on  the  scroll  of  Time  ? 
Ah  !  never  yet  did  poet's  tongue. 
Though  like  a  silver  bell  it  rung  ; 
Or  iTiinstrel,  o'er  his  sounding  lyre 
Breathing  the  old,  prophetic  fire  ; 
Or  harper,  in  the  storied  walls 
Of  Scotia's  proud,  baronial  halls — 
Where  mail-clad  men  with  sword  and  spear 
Waited  entranced  the  song  to  hear, 
That  through  the  stormy  midnight  hour 
Fast  held  them  in  its  spell  of  power — 
Ah  !  never  yet  did  they  rehearse. 
In  flowing  rhyme  or  stately  verse. 
The  praise  of  deeds  more  nobly  done, 
Or  tell  of  fields  more  grandly  won  ! 
We  laud  thee,  we  praise  thee,  we  bless  thee  to-day ! 
At  thy  feet,  lowly  bending,  glad  homage  we  pay  ! 


no  PAST  AND   PRESENT 

Thou  hast  taught  us  that  men  are  as  brave  as  of  yore  ; 
That  the  day  of  great  deeds  and  great  thought  is  not  o'er  ; 
That  the  courage  undaunted,  the  far-reaching  faith, 
The  strength  that  unshaken  looks  calmly  on  death, 
The  self-abnegation  that  hastens  to  lay 
Its  all  on  the  altar,  have  not  passed  away. 
Thou  hast  taught  us  that  "  country  "  is  more  than  a  name  ; 
That  honor  unsullied  is  better  than  fame  ; 
Thou  hast  proved  that  while  man  can  still  battle  for  truth, 
Even  boyhood  can  give  up  the  promise  of  youth, 
And,  yielding  its  life  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 
Say,  **  'Tis  sweet  for  my  God  and  my  country  to  die." 
O  heart-searching  Present,  thy  sons  have  gone  down 
To  the  night  of  the  grave  in  their  day  of  renown  ! 
Thy  daughters  have  watched  by  the  hearthstone  in  vain 
For  the  loved  and  the  lost  that  returned  not  again. 
No  Spartans  were  they — yet  with  tears  falling  fast. 
Their  faith  and  their  patience  endured  to  the  last  ; 
And  God  gave  them  strength  to  their  dearest  to  say, 
''  Go  ye  forth  to  the  fight,  while  we  labor  and  pray  !  " 
Thou  hast  opened  thy  coffers  on  land  and  on  sea. 
And  broad-handed  Charity,  noble  and  free. 
Has  lavished  thy  bounties  on  friend  and  on  foe. 
Like  the  rain  that,  descending,  falls  softly  and  slow 
On  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and  never  may  know 
The  one  from  the  other.     When  thy  story  is  told 
By  some  age  that  looks  backward  and  calls  thee  "  the  old," 
It  shall  puzzle  its  sages,  all  great  as  thou  art. 
To  tell  which  was  greatest,  thy  head  or  thy  heart ! 
Mighty  words  thy  lips  have  spoken — 
Strongest  fetters  thou  hast  broken — 
And  in  tones  like  those  of  thunder, 
When  the  clouds  are  rent  asunder. 
Thou  hast  made  the  Nations  hear  thee — 
Thou  hast  bade  the  Tyrants  fear  thee — 


PAST  AND   PRESENT  III 

And  our  hearts  to-day  proclaim  thee, 

As  they  oft  have  done  before, 
Fit  to  lead  the  glorious  legions 

Of  the  glorious  days  of  yore  ! 
Yet  still,  we  pray  thee,  veil  awhile 

Thy  splendor  from  our  dazzled  eyes 
And  hide  the  glory  of  thy  smile. 

Lest  our  souls  wake  to  new  surprise  ! 
Bear  with  us  while  our  feet  to-day 
Retrace  a  dim  and  shadowy  way, 
In  search  of  what,  it  well  may  be, 
Shall  help  to  make  us  worthier  thee  ! 


And  now,  O,  spirit  of  the  Past,  draw  near. 

And  let  us  feel  thy  blessed  presence  here  ! 

With  reverent  hearts  and  voices  hushed  and  low, 

We  wait  to  hear  thy  garments'  rustling  flow  ! 

From  all  the  conflicts  of  our  busy  life. 

From  all  its  bitter  and  enduring  strife. 

Its  eager  yearnings  and  its  wild  turmoil. 

Its  cares,  its  joys,  its  sorrows  and  its  toil. 

Its  aspirations,  that  too  often  seem 

Like  the  remembered  phantoms  of  a  dream, 

We  turn  aside.     This  hour  is  thine  alone. 

And  none  shall  share  the  grandeur  of  thy  throne. 

Ah  !  thou  art  here  !     Beneath  these  whispering  trees 

Thy  breath  floats  softly  on  the  passing  breeze  ; 

We  feel  the  presence  that  we  cannot  see. 

And  every  moment  draws  us  nearer  thee. 

Could  we  but  see  thee  with  thy  solemn  eyes. 

In  whose  rare  depths  such  wondrous  meaning  lies — 

Thy  dark  robes  sweeping  this  enchanted  ground — 

Thy  midnight  hair  with  purple  pansies  crowned — 


112  PAST  AND   PRESENT 

Thy  lip  so  sadly  sweet,  thy  brow  serene  ! 

There  is  no  expectation  in  thy  mien, 

For  thou  hast  done  with  dreams.     Nor  joy  nor  pain 

Can  e'er  disturb  thy  placid  calm  again. 

What  is  this  veil  that  hides  thee  from  our  sight  ? 

Breathe  it  away,  thou  spirit  darkly  bright ! 
It  may  not  be  !     Our  eyes  are  dim, 

Perhaps  with  age,  perhaps  with  tears  ; 
We  hear  no  more  the  choral  hymn 

The  angels  sing  among  the  spheres. 
Weary  and  worn  and  tempest-tossed. 
Much  have  we  gained — and  something  lost — 
Since  in  the  sunbeams  golden  glow. 
The  rippling  river's  silvery  flow, 
The  song  of  bird  or  murmuring  bee. 
The  fragrant  flower,  the  stately  tree, 
The  royal  pomp  of  sunset  skies, 
And  all  earth's  varied  harmonies, 
We  saw  and  heard  what  nevermore 
Can  Earth  or  Heaven  to  us  restore, 
And  felt  a  child's  unquestioning  faith 
In  childhood's  mystic  lore  ! 


Yet  could  our  voices  reach  the  slumbering  dead 
Who  rest  so  calmly  in  yon  grass-grown  bed. 
This  truth  would  seem  with  greatest  wonder  fraught- 
That  they  are  heroes  to  our  eyes  and  thought. 
For  they  were  men  who  never  dreamed  of  fame  : 
They  did  not  toil  to  make  themselves  a  name  ; 
They  little  fancied  that  when  years  had  passed, 
And  the  long  century  had  died  at  last. 
Another  age  should  make  their  graves  a  shrine. 
And  humble  chaplets  for  their  memory  twine.  . 


PAST  AND    PRESENT  1 13 

They  simply  strove,  as  other  men  may  strive, 
Full,  earnest  lives  in  sober  strength  to  live  ; 
They  did  the  duty  nearest  to  their  hand  ; 
Subdued  wild  nature  as  at  God's  command; 
Laid  the  broad  acres  open  to  the  sun, 
And  made  fair  homes  in  forests  dark  and  dun  ; 
Built  churches,  founded  schools,  established  laws, 
Kindly  and  just  and  true  to  freedom's  cause  ; 
Resisted  wrong,  and  with  stout  hands  and  hearts, 
In  war,  as  well  as  peace,  played  well  their  parts. 
Their  men  were  brave  ;  their  women  pure  and  true  ; 
Their  sons  ashamed  no  honest  work  to  do  ; 
And  while  they  dreamed  no  dreams  of  being  great, 
They  did  great  deeds,  and  conquered  hostile  Fate. 
We  laud  them,  we  praise  them,  we  bless  them  to-day  ; 
At  their  graves,  as  their  right,  tearful  homage  we  pay  ! 
And  the  laurel-crowned  Present  comes  humbly  at  last. 
And  bends  by  our  side  at  the  shrine  of  the  Past. 
With  the  hands  that  such  burdens  unshrinking  have  borne, 
From  the  brow  weary  cares  have  so  furrowed  and  worn. 
She  takes  off  the  chaplet,  and  lays  it  with  tears, 
That  she  cares  not  to  hide,  at  the  feet  of  the  Years. 
Hark  !  a  breath  of  faint  music,  a  murmur  of  song  ! 
A  form  of  strange  beauty  is  floating  along 
On  the  soft  summer  air,  and  the  Future  draws  near, 
With  a  light  on  her  young  face,  unshadowed  and  clear. 
Two  garlands  she  bears  in  the  arms  that  not  yet 
Have  toiled  'neath  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day  ; 
Lo  !  both  are  of  amaranth,  fragrant  and  wet 
With  the  dew  of  remembrance,  and  fadeless  alway. 
Oh  !  well  may  we  hush  our  vain  babblings — and  wait ! 
He  who  merits  the  crown,  wears  it  sooner  or  late  ! 
On  the  brow  of  the  Present,  the  grave  of  the  Past, 
The  wreaths  they  have  earned  shall  rest  surely  at  last ! 


VERMONT 

(WRITTEN   FOR  THE  VERMONT  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRA- 
TION,  AT   BENNINGTON,   AUGUST    1 5,    1877.) 


0  WOMAN-FORM,  majestic,  strong  and  fair. 
Sitting  enthroned  where  in  upper  air 

Thy  mountain-peaks  in  solemn  grandeur  rise. 
Piercing  the  splendor  of  the  summer  skies — 
Vermont !     Our  mighty  mother,  crowned  to-day 
In  all  the  glory  of  thy  hundred  years, 
If  thou  dost  bid  me  sing,  how  can  I  but  obey  ? 
What  though  the  lips  may  tremble,  and  the  verse 
That  fain  would  grandly  thy  grand  deeds  rehearse 
May  trip  and  falter,  and  the  stammering  tongue 
Leave  all  unrhymed  the  rhymes  that  should  be  sung  ? 

1  can  but  do  thy  bidding,  as  is  meet, 
Bowing  in  humble  homage  at  thy  feet — 
Thy  royal  feet — and  if  my  words  are  weak, 

O  crowned  One,  'twas  thou  didst  bid  me  speak ! 


IL 

Yet  what  is  there  to  say. 
Even  on  this  proud  day. 
This  day  of  days,  that  hath  not  oft  been  said? 
What  song  is  there  to  sing 
That  hath  not  oft  been  sung  ? 


VERMONT  115 

What  laurel  can  we  bring 
That  ages  have  not  hung 
A  thousand  times  above  their  glorious  dead  ? 

What  crown  to  crown  the  living 

Is  left  us  for  our  giving, 

That  is  not  shaped  to  other  brows 
That  wore  it  long  ago  ? 

Our  very  vows  but  echo  vows 
Breathed  centuries  ago  ! 

Earth  has  no  choral  strain, 

No  sweet  or  sad  refrain, 
No  lofty  paean  swelling  loud  and  clear, 

That  Virgil  did  not  know. 

Or  Dante,  wandering  slow 
In  mystic  trances,  did  not  pause  to  hear ! 
When  gods  from  high  Olympus  came 
To  touch  old  Homer's  lips  with  flame, 
The  morning  stars  together  sung 
To  teach  their  raptures  to  his  tongue. 
For  him  the  lonely  ocean  moaned  ; 
For  him  the  mighty  winds  intoned 
Their  deep-voiced  chantings,  and  for  him 
Sweet  flower-bells  pealed  in  forests  dim. 
From  earth  and  sea  and  sky  he  caught 
The  spell  of  their  divinest  thought, 
While  yet  it  blossomed  fresh  and  new 
As  Eden's  rosebuds  wet  with  dew  ! 
Oh  !  to  have  lived  when  earth  was  young. 
With  all  its  melodies  unsung ! 
The  dome  of  heaven  bent  nearer  then 
When  gods  and  angels  talked  with  men — 
When  Song  itself  was  newly  born. 
The  Incarnation  of  the  Morn  ! 
But  now,  alas  !  all  thought  is  old, 
All  life  is  but  a  story  told, 


Il6  VERMONT 

And  poet- tongues  are  manifold  ; 
And  he  is  bold  who  tries  to  wake, 
Even  for  God  or  Country's  sake, 
Invoice,  or  pen,  or  lute,  or  lyre, 
Sparks  of  the  old  Promethean  fire  ! 

III. 

And  yet— O  Earth,  thank  God  !— the  soul  of  song 
Is  as  immortal  as  the  eternal  stars  ! 

O  trembling  heart !  take  courage  and  be  strong. 
Hark !  to  a  voice  from  yonder  crystal  bars  : 

"  Did  the  roses  blow  last  June  ? 

Do  the  stars  still  rise  and  set  ? 
And  over  the  crests  of  the  inoinitains 

Are  the  light  clouds  floating  yet  ? 
Do  the  rivers  run  to  the  sea 

With  a  deep,  resistless  flow  ? 
Do  the  little  birds  sing  north  and  south 

As  the  seasons  come  and  go  ? 

"  Are  the  hills  as  fair  as  of  old? 

Are  the  skies  as  blue  and  far  f 
Have  you  lost  the  pomp  of  the  sunset, 

Or  the  light  of  the  evening  star  ? 
Has  the  glory  gone  from  the  morning  f 

Do  the  wild  winds  wail  7io  more  ? 
Is  there  7iow  no  thunder  of  billows 

Beating  the  storm-lashed  shore  ? 

"  Is  Love  a  forgotten  story  ? 

Is  Passion  a  Jester^  s  theme  f 
Has  Valor  thrown  down  its  armor  ? 

Is  Honor  an  idle  dream  ? 


VERMONT  117 

Is  there  no  pure  trust  in  woman  ? 

No  conquering  faith  in  God? 
Are  there  no  feet  strong  to  follow 

In  the  paths  the  martyrs  trod  f 

*'  Did  you  find  no  hero  graves 

When  your  violets  bloomed  last  May — 
Protider  than  those  of  Marat hon^ 

Or  *  old  Platea's  day  '  ? 
When  your  red  and  white  and  blue 

On  the  free  winds  fluttered  outy 
Were  there  no  strong  hearts  and  voices 
To  receive  it  with  a  shout  f 
Oh  /  let  the  Earth  grow  old  / 
And  the  burning  stars  grow  cold ! 
And  J  if  you  will,  declare  man's  story  told  / 
Yet,  pure  as  faith  is  pure. 
And  sure  as  death  is  sure, 
As  long  as  love  shall  live,  shall  song  endure  I  " 

IV. 

When,  one  by  one,  the  stately,  silent  Years 
Glide  like  pale  ghosts  beyond  our  yearning  sight, 
Vainly  we  stretch  our  arms  to  stay  their  flight, 
So  soon,  so  swift  they  pass  to  endless  night ! 

We  hardly  learn  to  name  them, 

To  praise  them  or  to  blame  them, 

To  know  their  shadowy  faces, 

Ere  we  see  their  empty  places ! 

Only  once  the  glad  Spring  greets  them  : 

Only  once  fair  Summer  meets  them  ; 

Only  once  the  Autumn  glory 

Tells  for  them  its  mystic  story  ; 

Only  once  the  Winter  hoary 
Weaves  for  them  its  robes  of  light ! 


Il8  VERMONT 

Years  leave  their  work  half-done  ;  like  men,  alas! 

With  sheaves  ungathered  to  their  graves  they  pass, 

And  are  forgotten.     What  they  strive  to  do 

Lives  for  a  while  in  memory  of  a  few  ; 

Then  over  all  Oblivion's  waters  flow — 

The  Years  are  buried  in  the  long  ago ! 
But  when  a  Century  dies,  what  room  is  there  for  tears  ? 
Rather  in  solemn  exaltation  let  us  come, 
With  roll  of  drum 
(Not  muffled  as  in  woe), 

With  blare  of  bugles,  and  the  liquid  flow 

Of  silver  clarions,  and  the  long  appeal 

Of  the  clear  trumpets  ringing  peal  on  peal ; 

With  clash  of  bells,  and  hosts  in  proud  array, 

To'pay  meet  homage  to  its  burial  day ! 

For  its  proud  work  is  done.     Its  name  is  writ 

Where  all  the  ages  that  come  after  it 

Shall  read  the  eternal  letters,  blazoned  high 

On  the  blue  dome  of  the  impartial  sky. 

What  ruthless  fate  can  darken  its  renown, 

Or  dim  the  lustre  of  its  starry  crown  ? 
On  mountain-peaks  of  Time  each  Century  stands  alone  ; 
And  each,  for  glory  or  for  shame,  hath  reaped  what  it  hath 
sown  ! 

V. 

But  this — the  one  that  gave  thee  birth 
A  hundred  years  ago,  O  beauteous  mother  ! 
This  mighty  Century  had  a  mightier  brother, 

Who  from  the  watching  earth 
Passed  but  last  year  !     Twin-born  indeed  were  they— 
For  what  are  twelve  months  to  the  womb  of  time 
Pregnant  with  ages  ? — Hand  in  hand  they  climbed 
With  clear,  young  eyes  uplifted  to  the  stars ; 
With  great,  strong  souls  that  never  stopped  for  bars, 


VERMONT  119 

Through  storm  and  darkness  up  to  glorious  day ! 

Each  knew  the  other's  need  ;  each  in  his  breast 

The  subtle  tie  of  closest  kin  confessed  ; 

Counted  the  other's  honor  as  his  own  ; 

Nor  feared  to  sit  upon  a  separate  throne  ; 

Nor  loved  each  other  less  when — wondrous  fate  !  — 

One  gave  a  Nation  life,  and  one  a  State  ! 


VI. 


Oh  !  rude  the  cradle  in  which  each  was  rocked, 
The  infant  Nation,  and  the  infant  State ! 
Rough  nurses  were  the  Centuries,  that  mocked 
At  mother-kisses,  and  for  mother-arms 
Gave  their  young  nurslings  sudden  harsh  alarms, 
Quick  blows  and  stern  rebuffs.     They  bade  them  wait, 
Often  in  cold  and  hunger,  while  the  feast 
Was  spread  for  others,  and,  though  last  not  least, 
Gave  them  sharp  swords  for  playthings,  and  the  din 
Of  actual  battle  for  the  mimic  strife 
That  childhood  glories  in  ! 
Yet  not  the  less  they  loved  them.     Spartans  they, 
Who  could  not  rear  a  weak,  effeminate  brood. 
Better  the  forest's  awful  solitude, 
Better  the  desert  spaces,  where  the  day 
Wanders  from  dawn  to  dusk  and  finds  no  life  ! 


VII. 


But  over  all  the  tireless  years  swept  on. 

Till  side  by  side  the  Centuries  grew  old. 

And  the  young  Nation,  great  and  strong  and  bold, 

Forgot  its  early  struggles,  in  triumphs  later  won ! 
It  stretched  its  arms  from  East  to  West ; 
It  gathered  to  its  mighty  breast 


I20  VERMONT 

From  every  clime,  from  every  soil, 

The  hunted  sons  of  want  and  toil ; 

It  gave  to  each  a  dwelling-place  ; 

It  blent  them  in  one  common  race  ; 

And  over  all,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Wide  flew  the  banner  of  the  free  ! 

It  did  not  fear  the  wrath  of  kings, 

Nor  the  dread  grip  of  deadlier  things — 

Gaunt  Famine  with  its  ghastly  horde. 

Dishonor  sheathing  its  foul  sword, 

Nor  faithless  friend,  nor  treacherous  blow 

Struck  in  the  dark  by  stealthy  foe  ; 

For  over  all  its  wide  domain, 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  main  to  main, 

From  vale  to  mountain-top,  it  saw 

The  reign  of  plenty,  peace,  and  law  ! 

VIII. 

Thus  fared  the  Nation,  prosperous,  great,  and  free, 
Prophet  and  herald  of  the  good  to  be  ; 
And  on  its  humbler  way,  in  calm  content. 
The  lesser  State,  the  while,  serenely  went. 
Safe  in  her  mountain  fastnesses  she  dwelt, 
Her  life's  first  cares  forgot,  its  woes  unfelt, 
And  thought  her  bitterest  tears  had  all  been  shed, 
For  peace  was  in  her  borders,  and  God  reigned  overhead. 

IX. 

But  suddenly  over  the  hills  there  came 

A  cry  that  rent  her  with  grief  and  shame — 

A  cry  from  the  Nation  in  sore  distress, 

Stricken  down  in  the  pride  of  its  mightiness ! 

With  passionate  ardor  up  she  sprang. 

And  her  voice  like  the  peal  of  a  trumpet  rang — 


VERMONT  121 

*'  What  ho !  what  ho !  brave  sons  of  mine, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  mountain  pine ! 
To  the  front  of  the  battle,  away  !  away  ! 
The  Nation  is  bleeding  in  deadly  fray, 
The  Nation,  it  may  be,  is  dying  to-day ! 
On,  then,  to  the  rescue !  away  !  away  !  " 

X. 

Ah  !  how  they  answered  let  the  ages  tell. 

For  they  shall  guard  the  sacred  story  well ! 

Green  grows  the  grass  to-day  on  many  a  battle-field  ; 

War's  dread  alarms  are  o'er  ;  its  scars  are  healed  ; 

Its  bitter  agony  has  found  surcease ; 

A  re-united  land  clasps  hands  in  peace. 

But,  oh  !  ye  blessed  dead,  whose  graves  are  strown 

From  where  our  forests  make  perpetual  moan. 

To  those  far  shores  where  smiling  Southern  seas 

Give  back  soft  murmurs  to  the  fragrant  breeze — 

Oh  !  ye  who  drained  for  us  the  bitter  cup, 

Think  ye  we  can  forget  what  ye  have  offered  up  ? 

The  years  will  come  and  go,  and  other  centuries  die. 

And  generation  after  generation  lie 

Down  in  the  dust ;  but,  long  as  stars  shall  shine. 
Long  as  Vermont's  green  hills  shall  bear  the  pine, 
As  long  as  Killington  shall  proudly  lift 
Its  lofty  peak  above  the  storm-cloud's  rift, 
Or  Mansfield  hail  the  blue,  o'erarching  skies, 
Or  fair  Mount  Anthony  in  grandeur  rise. 
So  long  shall  live  the  deeds  that  ye  have  done, 
So  deathless  be  the  glory  ye  have  won  I 

XI. 

Not  with  exultant  joy 
And  pride  without  alloy, 
Did  the  twin  Centuries  rejoice  when  all  was  o'er. 


122  VERMONT 

What  though  the  Nation  rose 
Triumphant  o'er  its  foes  ? 
What  though  the  State  had  gained 
The  meed  of  faith  unstained  ? 
Their  mighty  hearts  remembered  the  dead   that  came    no 
more ! 

Remembered  all  the  losses, 
The  weary,  weary  crosses. 
Remembered  earth  was  poorer  for  the  blood  that  had  been 

shed, 
And  knew  that  it  was  sadder  for  the  story  it  had  read  ! 

So,  clasping  hands  with  somewhat  saddened  mien, 
And  eyes  uplifted  to  the  Great  Unseen 
That  rules  alike  o'er  Centuries  and  men, 
Onward  they  walked  serenely  toward — the  End  ! 

XII. 

One  reached  it  last  year.     Ye  remember  well — 
The  wondrous  tale  there  is  no  need  to  tell — 
How  the  whole  world  bowed  down  beside  its  bier  ; 
How  all  the  Nations  came,  from  far  or  near, 
Heaping  their  treasures  on  its  mighty  pall — 
Never  had  kingliest  king  such  funeral ! 
Old  Asia  rose,  and,  girding  her  in  haste. 
Swept  in  her  jewelled  robes  across  the  waste, 
And  called  to  Egypt  lying  prone  and  hid 
Where  waits  the  Sphinx  beside  the  pyramid  ; 
Fair  Europe  came  with  overflowing  hands, 
Bearing  the  riches  of  her  many  lands  ; 
Dark  Afric,  laden  with  her  virgin  gold. 
Yet  laden  deeper  with  her  woes  untold  ; 
Japan  and  China  in  grotesque  array, 
And  all  the  enchanted  islands  of  Cathay ! 


VERMONT  123 


XIII. 

To-day  the  other  dies. 

It  walked  in  humbler  guise, 
Nor  stood  where  all  men's  eyes 

Were  fixed  upon  it. 
Earth  may  not  pause  to  lay 

A  wreath  upon  its  bier, 
Nor  the  world  heed  to-day 

Our  dead  that  lieth  here  ! 

Yet  well  they  loved  each  other- 
It  and  its  greater  brother. 
To  loftiest  stature  grown, 
Each  earned  its  own  renown  ; 
Each  sought  of  Time  a  crown. 
And  each  has  won  it ; 


XIV. 

But  what  to  us  are  Centuries  dead, 
And  rolling  Years  forever  fled, 
Compared  with  thee,  O  grand  and  fair 
Vermont — our  Goddess-mother  ? 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  thy  verdant  hills, 
Fresh  with  the  freshness  of  mountain-rills, 
Pure  as  the  breath  of  the  fragant  pine, 
Glad  with  the  gladness  of  youth  divine, 
Serenely  thou  sittest  throned  to-day 
Where  the  free  winds  that  round  thee  play 
Rejoice  in  thy  waves  of  sun-bright  hair, 

O  thou,  our  glorious  mother  ! 
Rejoice  in  thy  beautiful  strength  and  say 
Earth  holds  not  such  another  1 


124  VERMONT 

Thou  art  not  old  with  thy  hundred  years, 

Nor  worn  with  toil,  or  care,  or  tears  : 

But  all  the  glow  of  the  summer-time 

Is  thine  to-day  in  thy  glorious  prime  ! 

Thy  brow  is  fair  as  the  winter-snows, 

With  a  stately  calm  in  its  still  repose  ; 

While  the  breath  of  the  rose  the  wild  bee  sips, 

Half-mad  with  joy,  cannot  eclipse 

The  marvellous  sweetness  of  thy  lips  ; 

And  the  deepest  blue  of  the  laughing  skies 

Hides  in  the  depths  of  thy  fearless  eyes, 

Gazing  afar  over  land  and  sea 

Wherever  thy  wandering  children  be ! 

Fold  on  fold, 
Over  thy  form  of  grandest  mould 
Floweth  thy  robe  of  forest  green. 
Now  light,  now  dark,  in  its  emerald  sheen. 
Its  broidered  hem  is  of  wild  flowers  rare, 
With  feathery  fern-fronds  light  as  air 
Fringing  its  borders.     In  thy  hair 
Sprays  of  the  pink  arbutus  twine, 
And  the  curling  rings  of  the  wild  grape  vine. 
Thy  girdle  is  woven  of  silver  streams ; 
Its  clasp  with  the  opaline  lustre  gleams 
Of  a  lake  asleep  in  the  sunset  beams ; 

And,  half  concealing 

And  half  revealing, 
Floats  over  all  a  veil  of  mist 
Pale-tinted  with  rose  and  amethyst ! 

XV. 

Arise,  O  noble  mother  of  great  sons. 
Worthy  to  rank  among  earth's  mightiest  ones, 
And  daughters  fair  and  beautiful  and  good, 
Yet  wise  and  strong  in  loftiest  womanhood — 


VERMONT  125 

Rise  from  thy  throne,  and,  standing  far  and  high 

Outlined  against  the  blue,  adoring  sky, 

Lift  up  thy  voice,  and  stretch  thy  loving  hands 

In  benediction  o'er  the  waiting  lands  ! 

Take  thou  our  fealty  !  at  thy  feet  we  bow, 

Glad  to  renew  each  oft-repeated  vow  ! 

No  costly  gifts  we  bring  to  thee  to-day  ; 

No  votive  wreaths  upon  thy  shrine  we  lay  ; 

Take  thou  our  hearts,  then  ! — hearts  that  fain  would  be 

From  this  day  forth,  O  goddess,  worthier  thee  ! 


GETTYSBURG 

1 863- 1 889 


Brothers,  is  this  the  spot  ? 
Let  the  drums  cease  to  beat ; 
Let  the  tread  of  marching  feet, 
With  the  clash  and  clang  of  steel 
And  the  trumpet's  long  appeal 
(Cry  of  joy  and  sob  of  pain 
In  its  passionate  refrain) 

Cease  awhile. 

Nor  beguile 
Thoughts  that  would  rehearse  the  story 
Of  the  past's  remembered  glory  ; 
Thoughts  that  would  revive  to-day 
Stern  War's  rude,  imperious  sway  ; 
Waken  battle's  fiery  glow 
With  its  ardor  and  its  woe. 
With  its  wild,  exulting  thrills. 
With  the  rush  of  mighty  wills. 
And  the  strength  to  do  and  dare — 
Born  of  passion  and  of  prayer  ! 

II. 

Let  the  present  fade  away, 
And  the  splendors  of  to-day  ; 
For  our  hearts  within  us  burn 
As  our  glances  backward  turn. 


GETTYSBURG  12/ 

What  rare  memories  awaken 
As  the  tree  of  life  is  shaken, 
And  its  storied  branches  blow 
In  the  winds  of  long  ago  ! 
Do  ye  not  remember,  brothers, 
Ere  the  war-days  how  'twas  said 
Grand,  heroic  days  were  over 
And  proud  chivalry  was  dead  ? 
Still  we  saw  the  glittering  lances 
Gleaming  through  the  old  romances, 
Still  beheld  the  watch-fires  burning 
On  the  cloudy  heights  of  Time  ; 

And  from  fields  that  they  had  won, 

When  the  stormy  fight  was  done, 
Saw  victorious  knights  returning 
Flushed  with  triumph's  joy  sublime  ! 

For  the  light  of  song  and  story 

Kindled  with  supernal  glory 
Plains  where  ancient  heroes  fought ; 
And  illumined,  with  a  splendor 
Rare  and  magical  and  tender, 
All  the  mighty  deeds  they  wrought. 
But  we  thought  the  sword  of  battle. 
Long  unused,  had  lost  its  glow. 
And  the  sullen  war-gods  slumbered 
Where  their  altar-fires  burned  low  I 


III. 

IVas  the  nation  dull  and  sodden, 
Buried  in  material  things  ? 

*Twas  the  chrysalis,  awaiting 

The  sure  stirring  of  its  wings  ! 

For  when  rang  the  thrilling  war-cry 
Over  all  the  startled  land, 


128  GETTYSBURG 

And  the  fiery  cross  of  battle, 

Flaming,  sped  from  hand  to  hand, 
Then  how  fared  it,  O  my  brothers  ? 
Were  men  false  or  craven  then  ? 
Did  they  falter  ? 
Did  they  palter  ? 
Did  they  question  why  or  when  ? 
Oh,  the  story  shall  be  told 
Until  earth  itself  is  old. 
How,  from  mountain  and  from  glen, 
More  than  thrice  ten  thousand  men 
Heard  the  challenge  of  the  foe, 
Heard  the  nation's  cry  of  woe, 
Heard  the  summoning  to  arms. 
And  the  battle's  loud  alarms  ! 
In  tumultuous  surprise, 
Lo,  their  answer  rent  the  skies  ; 
And  its  quick  and  strong  heart-thrills 
Rocked  the  everlasting  hills  ! 
Forth  from  blossoming  fields  they  sped 
To  the  fields  with  carnage  red  ! 
Left  the  plowshare  standing  still ; 
Lef.  the  bench,  the  forge,  the  mill ; 
Left  the  quiet  walks  of  trade 
And  the  quarry's  marble  shade  ; 
Left  the  pulpit  and  the  court, 
Careless  ease  and  idle  sport  ; 
Left  the  student's  cloistered  halls 
In  the  old,  gray  college  walls  ; 
Left  young  love-dreams,  dear  and  sweet. 
War's  stern  front,  unblenched,  to  meet ! 
Oh,  the  strange  and  sad  amaze 
Of  those  unforgotten  days, 
When  the  boys  whom  we  had  guided, 
Nursed  and  loved,  caressed  and  chided, 


GETTYSBURG  1 29 

Suddenly,  as  in  a  night, 

Sprang  to  manhood's  proudest  height  ; 

And  with  calmly  smiling  lips, 

As  who  life's  rarest  goblet  sips. 

Dauntless,  with  unhurried  breath, 

Marched  to  danger  and  to  death  ! 

IV. 

Soldiers,  is  this  the  spot  ? 
Fair  the  scene  is,  calm  and  fair, 
In  this  still  October  air  ; 
Far  blue  hills  look  gently  down 
On  the  happy,  tranquil  town. 
And  the  ridges  nearer  by 
Steeped  in  autumn  sunshine  lie. 
Laden  orchards,  smiling  fields. 
Rich  in  all  that  nature  yields  ; 
Bright  streams  winding  in  and  out 
Fertile  meadows  round  about. 
Lowing  herds  and  hum  of  bee. 
Birds  that  flit  from  tree  to  tree, 
Children's  voices  ringing  clear. 
All  we  touch  or  see  or  hear — 
Fruit  of  gold  in  silver  set — 
Tell  of  joy  and  peace.     And  yet — 
Soldiers,  is  this  the  spot 
That  can  never  be  forgot  ? 
Was  it  here  that  shot  and  shell 
Poured  as  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
Drenched  the  shrinking,  trembling  plain 
With  a  flood  of  fiery  rain  ? 
Was  it  here  the  awful  wonder 
Of  the  cannon's  crashing  thunder 
Shook  the  affrighted  hills,  and  made 
Even  the  stolid  rocks  afraid  ? 


I30  GETTYSBURG 


Was  it  here  an  armed  host, 

Like  two  clouds  where  lightnings  play, 
Or  two  oceans,  tempest  tost, 

Clashed  and  mingled  in  the  fray  ? 
Here  that,  'mid  the  din  and  smoke. 
Roar  of  guns  and  sabre  stroke, 
Tramp  of  furious  steeds,  where  moan 
Horse  and  rider,  both  o'erthrown. 
Lurid  fires  and  battle  yell. 

Forty  thousand  brave  men  fell  ? 

V. 

O  brothers,  words  are  weak  ! 
What  tongue  shall  dare  to  speak  ? 
Even  song  itself  grows  dumb 
In  this  high  presence. — Come 
Forth,  ye  whose  ashes  lie 
Under  this  arching  sky  ! 
Speak  ye  in  accents  clear 
Words  that  we  fain  would  hear  ! 
Tell  us  when  your  dim  eyes. 
Holy  with  sacrifice, 
Looked  through  the  battle  smoke 

Up  to  the  skies  ; 
Tell  us,  ye  valiant  dead. 
When  your  souls  starward  fled, 
How  from  the  portals  far 
Where  the  immortals  are. 
Chieftains  and  vikings  old, 
Heroes  and  warriors  bold. 
Men  whom  old  Homer  sung. 
Men  of  each  age  and  tongue. 
Knights  from  a  thousand  fields 
Bearing  their  blazoned  shields 
Thronged  forth  to  meet  ye  ! 


GETTYSBURG  131 

Tell  us  how,  floating  down, 
Each  with  a  martyr's  crown, 
They  who  had  kept  the  faith. 
Grandly  defying  death  ; 
They  who  for  conscience'  sake 
Felt  their  firm  heartstrings  break  ; 
They  who  for  truth  and  right 
Unshrinking  fought  the  fight  ; 
They  who  through  fire  and  flame 
Passed  on  to  deathless  fame. 

Hastened  to  greet  ye  ! 
Tell  how  they  welcomed  ye, 
Hailed  and  applauded  ye, 
Claimed  ye  as  comrades  true, 
Brave  as  the  world  e'er  knew  ; 
Led  your  triumphant  feet 
Up  to  the  highest  seat. 
Crowned  ye  with  amaranth, 

Laurel  and  palm. 

VI. 

Alas,  alas  !     They  speak  not ! 

The  silence  deep  they  break  not ! 

Heaven  keeps  its  martyred  ones 

Beyond  or  moon  or  suns  ; 

And  Valhalla  keeps  its  braves, 

Leaving  to  us  their  graves  ! 

Then  let  these  graves  speak  for  them 

As  long  as  the  wind  sweeps  o'er  them  ! 

As  long  as  the  sentinel  ridges 

Keep  guard  on  either  hand  ; 

As  long  as  the  hills  they  fought  for 

Like  silent  watch-towers  stand  1 


132  GETTYSBURG 


VII. 

Yet  not  of  them  alone 
Round  each  memorial  stone 

Shall  the  proud  breezes  whisper  as  they  pass, 
Rustling  the  faded  leaves 
On  chilly  autumn  eves, 

And  swaying  tenderly  the  sheltering  grass  ! 
O  ye  who  on  this  field 
Knew  not  the  joy  to  yield 

Your  young,  glad  lives  in  glorious  conflict  up 
Ye  who  as  bravely  fought, 
Ye  who  as  grandly  wrought, 

Draining  with  them  war's  darkly  bitter  cup, 
As  long  as  stars  endure 
And  God  and  Truth  are  sure  ; 
While  Love  still  claims  its  own, 
While  Honor  holds  its  throne 
And  Valor  hath  a  name. 
Still  shall  these  stony  pages 
Repeat  to  all  the  ages 
The  story  of  your  fame  ! 

VIII. 

O  beautiful  one,  my  Country, 
Thou  fairest  daughter  of  Time, 
To-day  are  thine  eyes  unclouded 
In  the  light  of  a  faith  sublime  1 
No  thunder  of  battle  appals  thee  ; 
From  thy  woe  thou  hast  found  release  ; 
From  the  graves  of  thy  sons  steals  only 
This  one  soft  whisper,—'*  Peace  !  " 


NO   MORE   THE   THUNDER   OF   CANNON" 

No  more  the  thunder  of  cannon, 

No  more  the  clashing  of  swords, 
No  more  the  rage  of  the  contest, 

Nor  the  rush  of  contending  hordes  ; 
But,  instead,  the  glad  reunion. 

The  clasping  of  friendly  hands, 
The  song,  for  the  shout  of  battle, 

Heard  over  the  waiting  lands. 

O  brothers,  to-night  we  greet  you 

With  smiles,  half  sad,  half  gay — 
For  our  thoughts  are  flying  backward 

To  the  years  so  far  away — 
When  with  you  who  were  part  of  the  conflict, 

With  us  who  remember  it  all, 
Youth  marched  with  his  waving  banner, 

And  his  voice  like  a  bugle  call ! 

We  would  not  turn  back  the  dial. 

Nor  live  over  the  past  again  ; 
We  would  not  the  path  re -travel. 

Nor  barter  the  **  now  "  for  the  ''  then." 
Yet,  oh,  for  the  bounding  pulses, 

And  the  strength  to  do  and  dare, 
When  life  was  one  grand  endeavor, 

And  work  clasped  hands  with  prayer  ! 


134  **  NO  MORE  THE  THUNDER  OF  CANNON 

But  blessed  are  ye,  O  brothers, 

Who  feel  in  your  souls  alvvay 
The  thrill  of  the  stirring  summons 

You  heard  but  to  obey  ; 
Who,  whether  the  years  go  swift, 

Or  whether  the  years  go  slow, 
Will  wear  in  your  hearts  forever 

The  glory  of  long  ago  ! 


GRANT 

August  8,  1885 

God  sends  his  angels  where  he  will, 
From  world  to  world,  from  star  to  star  ; 

They  do  his  bidding  as  they  fly, 
Whether  or  near  or  far  ! 

Whither  it  went,  or  what  its  quest, 
I  know  not ;  but  one  August  day 

A  great  white  angel  through  the  far 
Dim  spaces  took  its  way  ; 

Until  below  it  our  fair  earth, 

Like  a  rich  jewel  fitly  hung — 
An  emerald  set  with  silver  gleams — 

In  the  blue  ether  swung. 

The  angel  looked ;  the  angel  paused  ; 

Then  down  the  starry  pathway  swept. 
Till  mount  and  valley,  hill  and  plain. 

Beneath  its  vision  slept. 

Poised  on  a  far  blue  mountain  peak, 
It  saw  the  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Lifting  in  veiled  splendor  up 
The  banner  of  the  free  ! 

From  tower  and  turret,  spire  and  dome, 
From  stately  halls,  and  cabins  rude. 


136  GRANT 

Where  crag  and  cliff  and  forest  meet 
In  awful  solitude, 

It  saw  strange,  sombre  pennants  float, 
Black  shadows  on  the  summer  breeze 

That  bore,  from  shore  to  shore,  the  wail 
Of  solemn  symphonies. 

It  saw  long  files  of  armed  men, 

Clad  in  a  garb  of  faded  blue, 
Pass  up  and  down  the  sorrowing  land 

As  if  in  grand  review. 

It  saw  through  crowded  city  streets. 

Funereal  trains  move  to  and  fro. 
With  tolling  bells,  and  muffled  drums, 

And  trumpets  wailing  low. 

Descending  then  the  angel  sought 
A  stern,  sad  man  of  many  cares — 

Ah,  oft  before  have  mortals  talked 
With  angels,  unawares  ! 

The  angel  spake,  as  man  to  man — 

"  What  does  it  mean,  O  friend  ?  "  it  cried, 
**  These  sad-browed  hosts,  these  weeds  of  woe, 
This  mourning  far  and  wide  ?  " 

The  stranger  answered  in  amaze — 

"  Know  you  not  what  the  whole  world  knows  ? 
To  his  long  home,  thus  grandly  borne, 

Earth's  greatest  warrior  goes. 

"  The  foremost  soldier  of  his  age. 
The  victor  on  full  many  a  field — 

Who  saw  the  bravest  of  the  brave 
To  his  stern  prowess  yield." 


GRANT  137 

The  angel  sighed.     ''That  means,"  it  said, 
*'  Tumult  and  anguish,  pain  and  death, 

And  countless  sons  of  men  borne  down 
By  the  fierce  cannon's  breath  !  " 

Then  passed  from  sight  the  heavenly  guest, 

And  from  the  mountain-top  again 
Took  its  far  flight  from  North  to  South, 

Above  the  homes  of  men. 

But  still,  where'er  it  went,  it  saw 

The  starry  banners  half  mast  high, 
And  tower  and  turret  hung  with  black 

Against  the  reddening  sky  ! 

Still  saw  long  ranks  of  arm^d  men 

Who  for  the  blue  had  worn  the  gray — 

Still  saw  the  sad  processions  pass, 
Darkening  the  summer  day  ! 

*'  Was  this  their  conqueror  whom  you  mourn  ?  " 

The  angel  said  to  one  who  kept 
Lone  watch  where,  deep  in  grass-grown  graves. 

Young  Southern  soldiers  slept. 

**  Victor,  yet  friend,"  the  answer  came, 

*'  Even  theirs  who  here  their  life-blood  poured  ! 

He,  when  the  bitter  field  was  won. 
Was  first  to  sheathe  the  sword, 

"  And  cry  :  '  O  brothers,  take  my  hand — 

Brave  foemen,  let  us  be  at  peace  ! 
O'er  all  the  undivided  land 

Let  clash  of  conflict  cease  ! '" 

The  wondering  angel  went  its  way 

From  world  to  world,  from  star  to  star, 


138  GRANT 

Where  planet  unto  planet  turned, 
And  suns  blazed  out  afar. 

"  Learn,  learn,  O  universe,"  it  cried, 
*'  How  great  is  he  whose  foemen  lay 

Their  love  and  homage  at  his  feet, 
On  this — his  burial  day  !  " 


FRIAR   ANSELMO 

AND 

OTHER    POEMS 


FRIAR   ANSELMO 

Friar  Anselmo  for  a  secret  sin 
Sat  bowed  with  grief  the  convent  cell  within  ; 
Nor  dared,  such  was  his  shame,  to  lift  his  eyes 
To  the  low  wall  whereon,  in  dreadful  guise, 
The  dead  Christ  hung  upon  the  cursed  tree, 
Frowning,  he  thought,  upon  his  misery. 
What  was  his  sin  it  matters  not  to  tell. 

But  he  was  young  and  strong,  the  records  say  : 
Perhaps  he  wearied  of  his  narrow  cell  ; 

Perhaps  he  longed  to  work,  as  well  as  pray  ; 

Perhaps  his  heart  too  warmly  beat  that  day  I 
Perhaps — for  life  is  long — the  weary  road 
That  he  must  travel,  bearing  as  a  load 
The  slow,  monotonous  hours  that,  one  by  one. 
Dragged  in  a  lengthening  chain  from  sun  to  sun, 
Appalled  his  eager  spirit,  and  his  vow 
Pressed  like  an  iron  hand  upon  his  brow. 
Perhaps  some  dream  of  love,  of  home,  of  wife, 
Had  stirred  this  tumult  in  his  lonely  life, 
Tempting  his  soul  to  barter  heavenly  bliss, 
And  sell  its  birthright  for  a  woman's  kiss  ! 
At  all  events,  the  struggle  had  been  hard  ; 
And  as  a  bird  from  the  glad  ether  barred. 
So  had  he  beat  his  wings  till,  bruised  and  torn, 
He  wished  that  night  he  never  had  been  born  ! 
And  still  the  dead  Christ  on  the  cursed  tree 
Seemed  but  to  mock  his  hopeless  misery  ; 


142  FRIAR   ANSELMO 

Still  Mary  mother  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Nor  saint  nor  angel  bent  to  hear  him  pray  ! 

The  calm,  cold  moonlight  through  the  casement  shone 

Weird  shadows  darkened  on  the  floor  of  stone  ; 

Without,  what  solemn  splendors  !  and  within 

What  fearful  wrestlings  with  despair  and  sin  ! 

Sudden  and  loud  the  cloister  bell  outrang  ; 

Afar  a  door  swung  to  with  sullen  clang  ; 

And  overhead  he  heard  the  rhythmic  beat, 

The  measured  monotone  of  many  feet 

Seeking  the  chapel  for  the  midnight  prayer. 

Black  wings  seemed  hovering  round  him  in  the  air, 

Beating  him  back  when  with  a  stifled  moan 

He  would  have  sought  the  holy  altar  stone. 

Then  with  a  swift,  sharp  cry,  prostrate  he  fell 

Before  the  crucifix.     "  The  gates  of  hell 

Shall  not  prevail  against  me  !  "  loud  he  cried. 

Stretching  his  arms  to  Christ,  the  crucified. 

'*  By  Thy  dread  cross.  Thy  dying  agony. 

Thine  awful  passion.  Lord,  deliver  me  !  " 

Was  it  a  dream  ?     The  taunting  demons  fled  ; 
Through  the  dim  cell  a  wondrous  glory  spread  ; 
And  all  the  air  was  filled  with  rare  perfumes 
Wafted  from  censers  rich  with  heavenly  blooms. 
Transfigured  stood  the  Christ  before  his  eyes, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  woven  in  Paradise, 
And  from  the  empty  cross  upon  the  wall 
Streamed  a  wide  splendor  that  encompassed  all ! 
Was  it  a  dream  ?     Anselmo's  sight  grew  dim  ; 
The  cloistered  chamber  seemed  to  reel  and  swim  ; 
Yet  well  his  spirit  knew  the  glorious  guest. 
And  all  his  manhood  rose  to  meet  the  test. 
"  What  wilt  Thou  have  me.  Lord,  to  do  ?  "  he  cried 
With  paUid  lips,  and  kissed  the  sacred  feet. 


FRIAR   ANSELMO  143 

And  then  in  accents  strangely  calm,  yet  sweet, 
These  words  he  heard  from  Christ,  the  crucified. 
The  pitying  CHRIST  his  inmost  soul  who  read. 
With  all  its  wild  unrest,  its  doubt  and  dread  : 
"  Make  thou  a  copy  of  My  Holy  Word  ! " 
Then  mystic  presences  about  him  stirred  ; 
The  vision  faded.     At  the  dawn  of  day 
Prostrate  and  pallid  in  the  dusk  he  lay. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?     GoD  knows  !     The  narrow  cell 
Wore  the  old  aspect  he  had  learned  so  well. 
And  from  the  crucifix  upon  the  wall 
No  glory  streamed  illuminating  all ! 
Yet  still  a  subtile  fragrance  filled  the  room  ; 
And  looking  round  him  in  the  soft,  gray  gloom, 
Anselmo  saw  upon  the  fretted  floor 
An  eagle's  quill  that  this  grave  legend  bore  : 
"  He  works  most  nobly  for  his  fellow-men 
Who  gives  My  word  to  them,  by  tongue  or  pen  !  " 

Henceforth  Anselmo  prayed,  but  worked  as  well, 
Nor  felt  the  bondage  of  his  cloister  cell ; 
For  all  his  soul  was  filled  with  high  intent. 
He  had  no  dream  since  its  accomplishment — 
To  make  a  copy  of  the  Holy  Word, 
Fairer  than  eye  had  seen,  or  ear  had  heard, 
Or  heart  conceived  of!  Day  by  day  he  wrought, 
His  fingers  guided  by  a  single  thought ; 
Forming  each  letter  with  the  tenderest  care, 
With  points  of  richest  color  here  and  there  ; 
With  birds  on  swaying  boughs,  and  butterflies 
Poised  on  gay  wings  o'er  sprays  of  eglantine  ; 
With  tangled  tracery  of  flower  and  vine 
Through  which  gleamed  cherub  faces,  half  divine  ; 
With  fading  leaves  that  drift  when  summer  dies. 
And  angels  floating  down  the  evening  skies — 


144  FRIAR  ANSELMO 

Each  word  an  orison,  each  line  a  prayer  ! 

Slowly  the  work  went  on  from  day  to  day  ; 

The  seasons  came  and  went ;  May  followed  May  ; 

Year  after  year  passed  by  with  stately  tread 

To  join  the  countless  legions  of  the  dead, 

Till  Fra  Anselmo,  wan  and  bowed  with  age, 

Bent,  a  gray  monk,  above  the  parchment  page. 

Death  waited  till  he  wrote  the  last  fair  line. 

Then  touched  his  hand  and  closed  the  Book  Divine  ! 


The  world  has  grown  apace  since  then. 
He  who  would  give  God's  word  to  men, 
In  cloistered  cell,  o'er  parchment  page, 
No  longer  bends  from  youth  to  age. 
Countless  as  leaves  by  autumn  strewn 
The  leaves  of  His  great  Book  are  blown 
Over  the  earth  as  wide  and  far 
As  seeds  by  wandering  breezes  are  ! 
Yet  none  the  less  He  speaks  to-day 

As  to  Anselmo  in  his  cell  ; 
Bidding  men  speed  upon  their  way 

His  later  messages  as  well. 
For  not  alone  in  Holy  Book, 
In  revelations  dim  and  old. 
In  sweetest  stories  simply  told, 
In  grand,  prophetic  strains  that  reach 
The  loftiest  heights  of  human  speech, 
In  martial  hymn,  or  saintly  psalm. 
In  fiery  threat,  or  logic  calm, 
God's  messages  are  writ  to-day — 
And  He  whose  voice  Mount  Sinai  shook 

Still  bids  men  hearken  and  obey  ! 
He  writes  His  name  upon  the  hills  ; 
He  whispers  in  the  mountain  rills  ; 


J^ 


FRIAR  ANSELMO 

He  speaks  through  every  flower  that  blows, 

In  breath  of  lily,  tint  of  rose ; 

In  sultry  calms  ;  in  furious  beat 

Of  the  wild  storm's  tempestuous  feet ; 

In  starlit  night,  and  dewy  morn, 

And  splendor  of  the  day  new-born  ! 

He  uttereth  His  thunders  where 

The  shock  of  battle  rends  the  air ; 

He  guides  the  fiery  steeds  of  War ; 

He  rules  unseen  the  maddening  jar, 

The  hate  and  din  of  party  strife. 

And  bids  it  serve  the  nation's  life  ; 

He  leads  fair  Science,  where  she  walks 

With  stately  tread  among  the  stars. 
Or  where,  with  reverent  voice,  she  talks 

With  Nature  through  the  eternal  bars  I 
His  Word  is  uttered  wheresoe'er 
A  human  soul  has  ears  to  hear. 
The  royal  message  never  errs  ; 
God  send  it  true  interpreters  I 


145 


K 


THE   KING'S   ROSEBUD 

Only  a  blushing  rosebud,  folding  up 
Such  wealth  of  sweetness  in  its  dewy  cup 
That  the  whole  air  was  like  rare  incense  flung 
From  golden  censers  round  high  altars  swung ! 
One  day  the  king  passed  by  with  stately  tread, 
And,  reaching  forth  his  hand,  he  lightly  said, 
**  All  sweets  are  mine  ;  therefore  this  rose  I  take. 
And  wear  it  in  my  bosom  for  Love's  sake." 
Then,  while  the  king  passed  on  with  smiling  face. 
The  sweet  rose  gloried  in  its  pride  of  place. 

But  ah !  the  deeds  that  in  Love's  name  are  done ! 
The  woeful  wrack  wrought  underneath  the  sun  ! 
Still  with  that  smile  upon  his  lip,  the  king 
Laid  his  rash  hand  upon  the  beauteous  thing ; 
In  hot  haste  tore  the  crimson  leaves  apart. 
And  drained  the  sweetness  from  its  glowing  heart ; 
Seared  the  soft  petals  with  its  fiery  breath. 
Then  tossed  it  from  him  to  ignoble  death ! 
When  next  with  idle  steps  I  passed  that  way. 
Prone  in  the  mire  the  king's  fair  rosebud  lay. 


SOMEWHERE 

How  can  I  cease  to  pray  for  thee  ?     Somewhere 
In  God's  great  universe  thou  art  to-day  : 

Can  He  not  reach  thee  with  His  tender  care? 
Can  He  not  hear  me  when  for  thee  I  pray  ? 

What  matters  it  to  Him,  who  holds  within 
The  hollow  of  His  hand  all  worlds,  all  space, 

That  thou  art  done  with  earthly  pain  and  sin  ? 
Somewhere  within  His  ken  thou  hast  a  place. 

Somewhere  thou  livest  and  hast  need  of  Him  : 
Somewhere  thy  soul  sees  higher  heights  to  climb  ; 

And  somewhere  still  there  may  be  valleys  dim 
That  thou  must  pass  to  reach  the  hills  sublime. 

Then  all  the  more,  because  thou  canst  not  hear 
Poor  human  words  of  blessing,  will  I  pray, 

O  true,  brave  heart !     God  bless  thee,  whereso'er 
In  His  great  universe  thou  art  to-day  1 


PERAD VENTURE 

I  AM  thinking  to-night  of  the  little  child 
That  lay  on  my  breast  three  summer  days, 

Then  swiftly,  silently,  dropped  from  sight, 
While  my  soul  cried  out  in  sore  amaze. 

It  is  fifteen  years  ago  to-night  ; 

Somewhere,  I  know,  he  has  lived  them  through, 
Perhaps  with  never  a  thought  or  dream 

Of  the  mother-heart  he  never  knew  ! 

Is  he  yet  but  a  babe  ?  or  has  he  grown 
To  be  like  his  brothers,  fair  and  tall. 

With  a  clear,  bright  eye,  and  a  springing  step, 
And  a  voice  that  rings  hke  a  bugle  call  ? 

I  loved  him.     The  rose  in  his  waxen  hand 
Was  wet  with  the  dew  of  my  falling  tears  ; 

I  have  kept  the  thought  of  my  baby's  grave 
Through  all  the  length  of  these  changeful  years. 

Yet  the  love  I  gave  him  was  not  like  that 

I  give  to-day  to  my  other  boys. 
Who  have  grown  beside  me,  and  turned  to  me 

In  all  their  griefs  and  in  all  their  joys. 

Do  you  think  he  knows  it  ^     I  wonder  much 
If  the  dead  are  passionless,  cold,  and  dumb  ; 

If  into  the  calm  of  the  deathless  years 
No  thrill  of  a  human  love  may  come  ! 


PERADVENTURE  149 

Perhaps  sometimes  from  the  upper  air 

He  has  seen  me  walk  with  his  brothers  three  ; 

Or  felt  in  the  tender  twilight  hour 
The  breath  of  the  kisses  they  gave  to  me  ! 

Over  his  birthright,  lost  so  soon, 

Perhaps  he  has  sighed  as  the  swift  years  flew  ; 
O  child  of  my  heart !  you  shall  find  somewhere 

The  love  that  on  earth  you  never  knew  ! 


RENA 

(A  LEGEND   OF   BRUSSELS) 


St.  Gudula's  bells  were  chiming  for  the  midnight,  sad  and 

slow, 
In  the  ancient  town  of  Brussels,  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

And  St.  Michael,  poised  so  grandly  on  his  lofty,  airy  height, 
Seemed  transfigured  in  the  glory  of  the  full  moon's  tender 
light, 

When,  a  fair  and  saintly   maiden  crowned   with   locks   of 

palest  gold, 
Rena  stood  beside  her  lover,  son  of  Hildebrand  the  Bold. 

She  with  grief  and  tears  was  pallid ;  but  his  face  was  hard 

and  stern  : 
All  the  passion  of  his  being  in  his  dark  eyes  seemed  to  burn. 

"  Never  dream  that  I  will  give  thee  back  thy  plighted  faith,** 

he  cried, 
"  By  St.  Michael's  sword  I  swear  it,  thou,  my  love,  shalt  be 

my  bride  !  " 

"  Nay,  but  hear  me,"  she  responded  ;  "  hear  the  words  that 

I  must  speak  ; 
I  must  speak,  and  thou  must  hearken,  though  my  heart  is 

like  to  break. 


RENA  I  5 1 

"  Yestermorn,  as  I  sat  spinning  blithely  at  my  cottage  door, 
Straightway  fell  a  stately  shadow   in   the  sunshine  on   the 
floor  ; 

"  And  a  figure  stood  before  me,  so  majestic  and  so  grand, 
That  I  knew  it  in  a  moment  for  the  mighty  Hildebrand — 

*'  Stood  and  gazed  on  me  till  downward  at  my  feet  the  distaff 

dropped. 
And  in  all  my  veins  the  pulsing  of  the   swift  life-current 

stopped. 

"  *  Thou  art  Rena,'  then  he  uttered,  and  he  swore  a  dreadful 

oath, 
And  the  tempest  of  his  anger  beat  on  me  and  on  us  both. 

"  '  She  who  thinks  to  wed  with  Volmar  must  have  lands  and 

gold,'  said  he, 
*  Or  must  come  of  noble  lineage,  fit  to  mate  with  mine  and 

me ! 

"  *  Thou  art  but  a  peasant  maiden,   empty-handed,  lowly 

born  ; 
All  the  ladies  of  my  castle  would  look  down  on  thee  with 

scorn. 

**  *  Even  he  will  weary  of  thee  when  his  passion  once  is  spent, 
Vainly  cursing  her  who  doomed  him  to  an  endless  discon- 
tent ! ' 

"  Then  I,  trembling,  rose  up  slowly,  and  I  looked  him  in 

the  face, 
Though  the  dreadful  frown  it  wore  seemed  to  darken  all  the 

place. 


152  RENA 

**  *  Sir,  I  thank  you  for  this  warning,'  said  I,  speaking  low 

and  clear, 
*  But  the  laughter  of  your  ladies  I  must  teach  my  heart  to 

bear. 

"  *  For  the  rest — your  son  is  noble — and  my  simple  woman- 
hood 
He  will  hold  in  loving  honor,  as  a  saint  the  holy  rood  ! ' 

*'  Oh !  then   his   stern   face    whitened,  and   a  bitter  laugh 

laughed  he  : 
'  Truly  this  my  son  is  noble,  and  he  shall  not  wed  with  thee. 

*'*Hear  my  words  now,  and  remember!  for  by  this   good 

sword  I  swear, 
And  by  Michael  standing  yonder,  watching  us  from  upper 

air, 

"  '  If  he  dares  to  place  a  wedding-ring  upon  your  dowerless 

hand, 
On  his  head  shall  fall  a  father's  curse — the  curse  of  Hilde- 

brand ! ' 

"  O,  my  Volmar!     Then  the  earth  rocked,  and  I  fell  down 

in  a  swoon  ; 
When  I  woke  the  room  was  silent ;  it  was  past  the  hour  of 

noon  ; 

*'  And   I   waited  for  thy   coming,  as   the  captive  waits  for 

death. 
With   a  mingled  dread    and    longing,    and    a    half-abated 

breath !  " 

Straight  the  young  man  bowed  before  her,  as  before  a  holy 

shrine  : 
"  Never  hand  of  high-born  lady  was  more  richly  dowered 

than  thine  ! 


RENA  153 

"  What  care  I  for  gold  or  honors,  or— my — father's — curse  ?  " 

he  said  ; 
But  the  words  died  out  in  shudders,  and  his  face  grew  like 

the  dead. 

Then  she  twined  her  white  arms  round  him,  and  she  mur- 
mured, sweet  and  low, 

As  the  night  wind  breathing  softly  over  banks  where  violets 
blow  : 

** '  He  who  is  accursed  of  father,  he  shall  be   accursed  of 

God,' 
Long  ago  said  one  who  followed  where  the  holy  prophets 

trod. 

**Kiss  me  once,  then,  O  my  Volmar  !  just  once  more,  my 

Volmar  dear, 
Even  as  you  would  kiss  my  white  lips  if  I  lay  upon  my  bier ! 

*  *  For  a  gulf  as  dark  as  death  has  opened  wide  'twixt  thee 

and  me  ; 
Neither  thou  nor  I  can  cross  it,  and  thy  wife  I  may  not  be  !  " 

II. 

Once  again  the  bells  of  midnight  chimed  from  St.  Gudula's 

towers, 
While  St.  Michael  watched  the  city  slumbering  through  the 

ghostly  hours. 

But  no  slumber  came  to  Rena  where  she  moaned  in  bitter 

pain. 
For  the  anguish  of  that  parting  wrought  its  work  on  heart 

and  brain. 


1 54  RENA 

Suddenly  the  air  grew  heavy  as  with  magical  perfume, 
And  a  weird  and  wondrous  splendor  filled  the  dim  and  silent 
room. 

In  the  middle  of  the  chamber  stood  a  lady  fair  and  sweet, 
With  bright  tresses  falling  softly  to  her  small  and  sandalled 
feet. 

Flushed  her  cheeks  were  as  a  wild  rose,  and  the  glory  of  her 

eyes  ^ 

Was  the  laughing  light  and  glory  of  the  kindling  morning 

skies. 

Airy  robes  of  lightest  tissue  from  her  white  arms  floated  free  ; 
They  seemed  woven  of  the  mist  that  curls  above  the  azure 
sea, 

Wrought   in  curious   devices,  star  and  wheel  and  leaf  and 

flower, 
That,  like   frost  upon  a  window-pane,  might  vanish  in   an 

hour. 

In  her  hands  she  bore  a  cushion,  quaintly  fashioned,  strange- 
ly set 

With  small  silver  pins  that  spanned  it  like  a  branching  coro- 
net ; 

And  from  threads  of  finest  texture  swung  light  bobbins  to  and 

fro. 
As    the  lady  stood  illumined    in  the    weird  and  wondrous 

glow. 

Not  a  single  word  she  uttered ;  but,  as  silent  as  a  shade, 
Down  the  room  she  swiftly  glided  and  beside  the  startled 
maid 

Knelt,  a  radiant  vision,  smiling  into  Rena's  wondering  eyes, 
Giving  arch  yet  gracious  answer  to  her  tremulous  surprise. 


REN A  155 

Then  she  laid  the  satin  cushion  on  the  wondering  maiden's 

knee, 
And  to  all  her  mute  bewilderment,  no  syllable  spake  she. 

But,  as  in  and  out  and  round  about,  the  silver  pins  among. 
Flashed  the  white  hand  of  the  lady,  and  the  shining  bobbins 
swung, 

Lo  !  a  web  of  fairy  lightness  like  the  misty  robe  she  wore, 
Swiftly  grew  beneath  her  fingers,  drifting  downward  to  the 
floor ! 

And  as  Rena  looked  and  wondered,  inch  by  inch  the  marvel 
grew, 

Till  the  eastern  windows  brightened  as  the  gray  dawn  strug- 
gled through. 

Then  the  lady's  hand  touched  Rena's,  and  she  pointed  far 

away. 
Where  the  palace  towers  were  gleaming  in  the  first  red  light 

of  day. 

But  when  once  again  the  maiden  turned  her  glance  within  the 
room, 

With  the  lady  fair  had  vanished  all  the  splendor  and  per- 
fume. 

Still  the  satin  cushion  lay  there,  quaintly  fashioned,  strangely 
set 

With  the  silver  pins  that  spanned  it  like  a  branching  coro- 
net ; 

Still  the  light  web  she  had  woven  lay  in  drifts  upon  the  floor. 
Like  the  mist  wreaths  resting  softly  on  some  lone,  enchanted 
shore  ! 


156  RENA 


III. 

Slowly  Rena  raised  the  cushion,  with  her  sweet  eyes  shin- 
ing clear, 

Lightly  tossed  the  fairy  bobbins,  half  in  gladness,  half  in 
fear. 

Ah !  not  vain  had  been   her  watching  as    the   lovely   lady 

wrought ; 
All  the  magic  of  her  fingers  her  own  cunning   hand   had 

caught ! 

Many  a  day  above   the  cushion  Rena's  peerless  head  was 

bent, 
And  through  many  a  solemn  night  she  labored  on  with  sweet 

intent. 

For,  mayhap,  the  mystic  marvels  that  she  wove  might  bring 

her  gold — 
A  fair  dowry  fit  to  match  the  pride  of  Hildebrand  the  Bold  ! 

Then  she  braided  up  her  long  hair,  and  put  on  her  russet 

gown. 
And  with  wicker  basket  laden  passed  she  swiftly  through  the 

town. 

To  the  palace  where  Queen  Ildegar,  with  dames  of  high  de- 
gree. 
In  a  lofty  oriel  window  sat,  the  beauteous  morn  to  see. 

In  the  door-way  she  stood  meekly,  till  the  queen  said,  "  Mai- 
den fair. 
What  have  you  in  yonder  basket  that  you  carry  with  such 


care  i 


?»» 


RENA  157 

Eagerly  she  raised  her  blue  eyes,  hovering  smiles  and  tears 

between, 
Then  across  the  room  she  glided,  and  knelt  down  before  the 

queen. 

Lifting  up  the  wicker  cover,  "  Saints  in  heaven  !  "  cried  Ilde- 

gar, 
"  Here  are  tissues  fit  for  angels,  wrought  with  wreath  and 

point  and  star, 

**  In  most  curious  devices !  Never  saw  I  aught  so  rare — 
Where  found  you  these  frail  webs  woven  of  the  lightest  sum- 
mer air  ?" 

"  Well  they  may  be  fit  for  angels,"  said  she,  underneath  her 

breath ; 
"  O  my  lady,  hear  a  story  that  is  strange  and  true  as  death." 

But  ere  yet  the  tale  was  ended,  up  rose  good  Queen  Ildegar, 
And  she  sent  her  knights  and  pages  to  the  castle  riding  far. 

*'  Bring  me  Hildebrand  and  Volmar,  ere  the  sun  goes  down  !  " 

she  cried, 
**  Ho  !  my  ladies,  for  a  wedding,  and  your  queen  shall  bless 

the  bride ! 

"  I  will  buy  these  airy  wonders,  and  this  maiden  in  her  hand 
Shall  a  dowry  hold  as  royal  as  the  noblest  in  the  land." 

So  they  combed  her  shining  tresses,  and  they  brought  her 

robes  of  silk, 
Broidered  thick  with  gold  and  silver,  on  a  ground  as  white 

as  milk. 

But  she  whispered,  "  Sweetest  ladies,  let  me  wear  my  russet 

gown. 
That  I  wore  this  happy  morning  walking  blithely  through  the 

town. 


158  RENA 

*'  I  am  but  a  peasant  maiden,  all  unused  to  grand  estate, 
And  for   robes  of  silken    splendor,  dearest   ladies,  let   me 
wait ! " 

Then  the  good  queen,  smiling  brightly,  from  the  wicker  bas- 
ket took 

Lightest  web  of  quaintest  pattern,  and  its  filmy  folds  out- 
shook. 

With  her  own  white  hand  she  laid  it  over  Rena's  golden  hair. 
And  she  cried,  "  Oh,  look,  my  ladies !     Ne'er  before  was 
bride  so  fair  !  " 


A   SECRET 

It  is  your  secret  and  mine,  love  ! 

Ah,  me !  how  the  dreary  rain 
With  a  slow  persistence,  all  day  long 

Dropped  on  the  window-pane  ! 
The  chamber  was  weird  with  shadows 

And  dark  with  the  deepening  gloom 
Where  you  in  your  royal  womanhood, 

Lay  waiting  for  the  tomb. 

They  had  robed  you  all  in  white,  love  ; 

In  your  hair  was  a  single  rose — 
A  marble  rose  it  might  well  have  been 

In  its  cold  and  still  repose  ! 
O,  paler  than  yonder  carven  saint. 

And  calm  as  the  angels  are, 
You  seemed  so  near  me,  my  beloved. 

Yet  were,  alas,  so  far  ! 

I  do  not  know  if  I  wept,  love  ; 

But  my  soul  rose  up  and  said — 
"  My  heart  shall  speak  unto  her  heart, 
'  Though  here  she  is  lying — dead  ! 
I  will  give  her  a  last  love-token 

That  shall  be  to  her  a  sign 
In  the  dark  grave — or  beyond  it — 

Of  this  deathless  love  of  mine." 

So  I  sought  me  a  little  scroll,  love  ; 
And  thereon,  in  eager  haste, 


l6o  A  SECRET 

Lest  another's  eye  should  read  them 
Some  mystic  words  I  traced. 

Then  close  in  your  clasped  fingers, 
Close  in  your  waxen  hand, 

I  placed  the  scroll  for  an  amulet, 
Sure  you  would  understand  ! 

The  secret  is  yours  and  mine,  love  ! 

Only  we  two  may  know 
What  words  shine  clear  in  the  darkness. 

Of  your  grave  so  green  and  low. 
But  if  when  we  meet  hereafter, 

In  the  dawn  of  some  fairer  day, 
You  whisper  those  mystical  words,  love. 

It  is  all  I  would  have  you  say ! 


THIS    DAY 

I  WONDER  what  is  this  day  to  you, 

Looking  down  from  the  upper  skies ! 
Is  there  a  pang  at  your  gentle  heart  ? 

Is  there  a  shade  in  your  tender  eyes  ? 
Do  you  think  up  there  of  the  whispered  words 

That  thrilled  your  soul  long  years  ago  ? 
Does  ever  a  haunting  undertone 

Blend  with  the  chantings  sweet  and  low  ? 

When  this  day  dawned  (if  where  you  are 

Skies  grow  red  when  the  morn  is  near) 
Did  you  know  that  before  its  close 

The  love  once  yours  would  be  on  its  bier  ? 
Did  you  know  that  another's  lip 

Would  redden  with  kisses  once  your  own, 
And  the  golden  cup  of  a  younger  life 

O'erflow  with  the  wine  once  yours  alone  ? 

Do  you  remember  ?     Ah,  my  saint, 

Bend  your  ear  from  the  ether  blue  ! 
Have  you  risen  to  heights  so  far 

That  earth  and  its  loves  are  nought  to  you  ? 
Do  you  care  that  your  place  is  filled  ? 

Does  it  matter  that  now  at  last 
The  turf  above  you  has  grown  so  deep 

That  its  shadow  overlies  your  past  ? 


l62  THIS   DAY 

O,  belovM,  I  may  not  know  ! 

Heaven  is  afar,  and  the  grave  is  dumb, 
And  out  of  the  silence  so  profound 

Neither  token  nor  voice  may  come  ! 
We  try  to  think  that  we  understand  ; 

But  whether  you  wake,  or  whether  you  sleep. 
Or  whether  our  deeds  are  aught  to  you, 

Is  still  a  mystery  strange  and  deep  ! 


*'CHRISTUS!» 

Over  the  desolate  sea-side  town 
With  a  terrible  tumult  the  night  came  down, 
And  the  fierce  wind  swept  through  the  empty  street, 
With  the  drifting  snow  for  a  winding-sheet. 
Elsie,  the  fisherman's  daughter,  in  bed 
Lay  and  listened  in  awe  and  dread, 
But  sprang  to  her  feet  in  sudden  fear 
When  over  the  tempest,  loud  and  clear, 
A  voice  cried,  ' '  Christus  !  " 

**  Christus  !  Christus  !  "  and  nothing  more. 
Was  it  a  cry  at  the  cottage-door  ? 
She  left  her  chamber  with  flying  feet ; 
She  loosened  the  bolts  with  fingers  fleet ; 
She  lifted  the  latch,  but  only  the  din 
Of  the  furious  storm  and  the  snow  swept  in. 
She  looked  without :  not  a  soul  was  there, 
But  still  rang  out  on  the  startled  air 

The  strange  cry,  *'  Christus!" 

"  Christus !  Christus  !  "  She  slept  at  last, 
Though  the  old  house  rocked  in  the  wintry  blast ; 
And  when  she  awoke  the  world  was  still, 
A  wide,  white  silence  from  sea  to  hill. 
No  creature  stirred  in  the  morning  glow  ; 
There  was  not  a  footprint  in  the  snow  ; 
Yet  again  through  the  hush,  as  faint  and  far 
As  if  it  came  from  another  star, 

A  voice  sighed  "  Christus  !  " 


l64  '*  CHRISTUS  !  " 

"  Christus !  Christus  !  "     Who  can  it  be, 

O  Christ  our  Lord,  that  is  calling  Thee 

In  a  foreign  tongue,  with  a  woe  as  wild 

As  that  of  some  lost,  forsaken  child  ? 

She  turned  from  the  window  with  a  startled  gaze  ; 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  a  pale  amaze, 

Hearkening  still,  till  again  she  heard, 

As  in  a  waking  dream,  the  word — 

That  strange  word,  "  Christus  !  " 

Then  over  the  hill  with  weary  feet 
She  toiled  through  the  drifts  to  the  village -street. 
The  villagers  gathered  in  eager  haste, 
And  all  day  long  in  the  snowy  waste 
They  sought  in  vain  for  the  one  who  cried 
To  Him  who  of  old  was  crucified  : 
Then,  turning  away  with  a  laugh,  they  said, 
"  'Twas  only  the  wild  wind  overhead. 
Your  cry  of  *  Christus  1 '  " 

She  watched  their  going  with  earnest  eyes  : 
Hark  !    what  voice  to  the  taunt  replies  ? 
The  trees  were  still  as  if  struck  with  death  ; 
The  wind  was  soft  as  a  baby's  breath  ; 
The  sobbing  sea  was  asleep  at  last. 
Scourged  no  more  by  the  furious  blast ; 
Yet,  surely  as  ever  from  human  tongue 
A  cry  of  grief  or  despair  was  wrung. 

Some  voice  sighed,  '*  Christus  !  " 

Burned  on  her  cheek  a  sudden  flame 
As  her  heart's  strong  throbbings  went  and  came. 
And  she  stood  alone  on  the  lonely  shore. 
Gazing  the  wide  black  waters  o'er. 


**  CHRISTUS  !  "  165 

**  Whether  it  comes  from  heaven  or  hell, 
This  voice  I  have  learned  to  know  too  well — 
Whether  from  lips  alive  or  dead, 
Or  from  the  hovering  air,"  she  said — 
**  Whether  it  comes  from  sea  or  land, 
I  will  not  sleep  till  I  understand 
This  cry  of  '  Christus  ! '  " 

**  Christus !  Christus  !  "     Faint  and  slow 
Rose  the  wail  from  the  drifted  snow 
Under  a  low-browed,  beetling  rock, 
Strong  to  withstand  the  whirlwind's  shock. 
There,  in  the  heart  of  the  snowy  mound. 
The  buried  form  of  a  man  she  found  — 
A  Spanish  sailor,  with  beard  of  brown 
Over  his  red  scarf  flowing  down. 
And  jewelled  ears  that  were  strange  to  see. 
She  was  bending  over  it,  when — ah  me  ! 
The  shrill  cry,  *  *  Christus !  " 

Rang  out  as  if  from  the  stony  lips 
Whence  life  had  parted  in  drear  eclipse, 
As  if  the  soul  of  the  dead  man  cried 
Again  unto  Christ  the  Crucified. 
The  rose  had  fled  from  her  cheeks  so  red;, 
But  still  she  knelt  by  his  side  and  said. 
Under  her  breath,  "  I  must  understand 
Whether  from  heaven  or  sea  or  land 
Comes  that  cry, '  Christus  ! '  '* 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  pulseless  breast ! 
What  fluttered  beneath  the  crimson  vest  ? 
A  bird  with  plumage  of  green  and  gold, 
Nestling  away  from  the  piercing  cold. 


l66  '*CHRISTUS!" 

Was  folded  close  to  the  silent  heart 
From  which  it  had  felt  the  life  depart ; 
And  when  she  held  it  against  her  cheek, 
As  plainly  as  ever  a  bird  could  speak 
It  sobbed  out,  *  Christus ! '  " 

And  evermore  when  the  winds  blew  loud, 
And  the  trees  in  the  grasp  of  the  storm  were  bowed, 
And  the  lowering  wings  of  the  tempest  beat 
The  drifting  snow  in  the  village -street, 
Just  as  its  master  in  death  had  cried 
To  Christ,  the  Holy,  the  Crucified, 
Pouring  his  soul  in  one  wild  word — 
Pray  God  that  the  cry  in  heaven  was  heard  ! — 
The  bird  cried,  "  Christus  !  " 


THE  KISS 

When  you  lay  before  me  dead, 

In  your  pallid  rest, 
On  those  passive  lips  of  thine 

Not  one  kiss  I  pressed  t 

Did  you  wonder — looking  down 
From  some  higher  sphere — 

Knowing  how  we  two  had  loved 
Many  and  many  a  year  ? 

Did  you  think  me  strange  and  cold 

When  I  did  not  touch, 
Even  with  reverent  finger-tips, 

What  I  had  loved  so  much  ? 

Ah  !  when  last  you  kissed  me,  dear, 
Know  you  what  you  said  ? 

"  Take  this  last  kiss,  my  beloved, 
Soon  shall  I  be  dead  ! 

"  Keep  it  for  a  solemn  sign, 
Through  our  love's  long  night, 

Till  you  give  it  back  again 
On  some  morning  bright." 

So  I  gave  you  no  caress  ; 

But,  remembering  this, 
Warm  upon  my  lips  I  keep 

Your  last  living  kiss  ! 


WHAT   SHE   THOUGHT 

Marion  showed  me  her  wedding-gown 

And  her  veil  of  gossamer  lace  to-night, 
And  the  orange -blooms  that  to-morrow  morn 

Shall  fade  in  her  soft  hair's  golden  light. 
But  Philip  came  to  the  open  door  : 

Like  the  heart  of  a  wild-rose  glowed  her  cheek, 
And  they  wandered  off  through  the  garden-paths 

So  blest  that  they  did  not  care  to  speak. 

I  wonder  how  it  seems  to  be  loved  ; 

To  know  you  are  fair  in  someone's  eyes  ; 
That  upon  someone  your  beauty  dawns 

Every  day  as  a  new  surprise  ; 
To  know  that,  whether  you  weep  or  smile, 

Whether  your  mood  be  grave  or  gay, 
Somebody  thinks  you,  all  the  while, 

Sweeter  than  any  flower  of  May. 

I  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  love  : 

That,  I  think,  would  be  sweeter  far, — 
To  know  that  one  out  of  all  the  world 

Was  lord  of  your  life,  your  king,  your  star! 
They  talk  of  love's  sweet  tumult  and  pain  : 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand, 
Though — a  thrill  ran  down  to  my  finger-tips 

Once  when — somebody — touched  my  hand  ! 

I  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  dream 

Of  a  child  that  might  one  day  be  your  own  ; 


WHAT  SHE  THOUGHT  169 

Of  the  hidden  springs  of  your  life  a  part, 
Flesh  of  your  flesh,  and  bone  of  your  bone. 

Marion  stooped  one  day  to  kiss 

A  beggar's  babe  with  a  tender  grace  ; 

While  some  sweet  thought,  like  a  prophecy, 
Looked  from  her  pure  Madonna  face. 

I  wonder  what  it  must  be  to  think 

To-morrow  will  be  your  wedding-day, 
And  you,  in  the  radiant  sunset  glow 

Down  fragrant  flowery  paths  will  stray. 
As  Marion  does  this  blessed  night, 

With  Philip,  lost  in  a  blissful  dream. 
Can  she  feel  his  heart  through  the  silence  beat  ? 

Does  he  see  her  eyes  in  the  starlight  gleam  ? 

Questioning  thus,  my  days  go  on  ; 

But  never  an  answer  comes  to  me  : 
All  love's  mysteries,  sweet  as  strange, 

Sealed  away  from  my  life  must  be. 
Yet  still  I  dream,  O  heart  of  mine  ! 

Of  a  beautiful  city  that  lies  afar  ; 
And  there,  some  time,  I  shall  drop  the  mask. 

And  be  shapely  and  fair  as  others  are. 


WHAT  NEED? 

'*  IVhat  need  has  the  singer  to  sing  f 
And  why  should  your  poet  to-day 
His  pale  little  garland  of  poesy  brings 

On  the  altar  to  lay  f 
High-priests  of  song  the  harp-strings  swept 
Ages  before  he  smiled  or  wept  I  " 

What  need  have  the  roses  to  bloom  ? 

And  why  do  the  tall  lilies  grow  ? 
And  why  do  the  violets  shed  their  perfume 

When  night-winds  breathe  low  ? 
They  are  no  whit  more  bright  and  fair 
Than  flowers  that  breathed  in  Eden's  air  ! 

What  need  have  the  stars  to  shine  on  ? 

Or  the  clouds  to  grow  red  in  the  west, 
When  the  sun,  like  a  king,  from  the  fields  he  has  won, 

Goes  grandly  to  rest  ? 
No  brighter  they  than  stars  and  skies 
That  greeted  Eve's  sweet,  wondering  eyes  I 

What  need  has  the  eagle  to  soar 

So  proudly  straight  up  to  the  sun  ? 
Or  the  robin  such  jubilant  music  to  pour 

When  day  is  begun  ? 
The  eagles  soared,  the  robins  sung. 
As  high,  as  sweet,  when  earth  was  young ! 


WHAT   NEED  ?  I7I 

What  need,  do  you  ask  me  ?     Each  day- 
Hath  a  song  and  a  prayer  of  its  own, 
As  each  June  hath  its  crown  of  fresh  roses,  each  May 

Its  bright  emerald  throne  ! 
Its  own  high  thought  each  age  shall  stir, 
Each  needs  its  own  interpreter  ! 

And  thou,  O,  my  poet,  sing  on ! 

Sing  on  until  love  shall  grow  old  ; 
Till  patience  and  faith  their  last  triumphs  have  won, 

And  truth  is  a  tale  that  is  told ! 
Doubt  not,  thy  song  shall  still  be  new 
While  life  endures  and  God  is  true  I 


TWO 

We  two  will  stand  in  the  shadow  here, 

To  see  the  bride  as  she  passes  by  ; 
Ring  soft  and  low,  ring  loud  and  clear, 

Ye  chiming  bells  that  swing  on  high  ! 
Look  !  look  !  she  comes  !  The  air  grows  sweet 

With  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  orange  blooms, 
And  the  flowers  she  treads  beneath  her  feet 

Die  in  a  flood  of  rare  perfumes  ! 

She  comes  !  she  comes !     The  happy  bells 

With  joyous  clamor  fill  the  air. 
While  the  great  organ  dies  and  swells, 

Soaring  to  trembling  heights  of  prayer  ! 
Oh  !  rare  are  her  robes  of  silken  sheen. 

And  the  pearls  that  gleam  on  her  bosom's  snow ; 
But  rarer  the  grace  of  her  royal  mien, 

Her  hair's  fine  gold,  and  her  cheek's  young  glow. 

Dainty  and  fair  as  a  folded  rose, 

P'resh  as  a  violet  dewy  sweet, 
Chaste  as  a  lily,  she  hardly  knows 

That  there  are  rough  paths  for  other  feet. 
For  Love  hath  shielded  her  ;  Honor  kept 

Watch  beside  her  by  night  and  day  ; 
And  Evil  out  from  her  sight  hath  crept, 

Trailing  its  slow  length  far  away. 

Now  in  her  perfect  womanhood, 

In  all  the  wealth  of  her  matchless  charms, 


TWO  173 

Lovely  and  beautiful,  pure  and  good, 

She  yields  herself  to  her  lover's  arms. 
Hark !  how  the  jubilant  voices  ring  ! 

Lo  !  as  we  stand  in  the  shadow  here. 
While  far  above  us  the  gay  bells  swing, 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  a  happy  tear  ! 

The  pageant  is  over.     Come  with  me 

To  the  other  side  of  the  town,  I  pray. 
Ere  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  darkening  sea, 

And  night  falls  around  us,  chill  and  gray. 
In  the  dim  church  porch  an  hour  ago, 

We  waited  the  bride's  fair  face  to  see  ; 
Now  Life  has  a  sadder  sight  to  show, 

A  darker  picture  for  you  and  me. 

No  need  to  seek  for  the  shadow  here  ; 

There  are  shadows  lurking  everywhere ; 
These  streets  in  the  brightest  day  are  drear, 

And  black  as  the  blackness  of  despair. 
But  this  is  the  house.     Take  heed,  my  friend, 

The  stairs  are  rotten,  the  way  is  dim  ; 
And  up  the  flights,  as  we  still  ascend. 

Creep  stealthy  phantoms  dark  and  grim. 

Enter  this  chamber.     Day  by  day. 

Alone  in  this  chill  and  ghostly  room, 
A  child — a  woman — which  is  it,  pray  ? — 

Despairingly  waits  for  the  hour  of  doom  ! 
Ah  !  as  she  wrings  her  hands  so  pale, 

No  gleam  of  a  wedding  ling  you  see  ; 
There  is  nothing  to  tell.     You  know  the  tale — 

God  help  her  now  in  her  misery  ! 

I  dare  not  judge  her.     I  only  know 
That  love  was  to  her  a  sin  and  a  snare, 


174  TWO 

While  to  the  bride  of  an  hour  ago 

It  brought  all  blessings  its  hands  could  bear ! 
I  only  know  that  to  one  it  came 

Laden  with  honor,  and  joy,  and  peace  ; 
Its  gifts  to  the  other  were  woe  and  shame, 

And  a  burning  pain  that  shall  never  cease  ! 

I  only  know  that  the  soul  of  one 

Has  been  a  pearl  in  a  golden  case ; 
That  of  the  other  a  pebble  thrown 

Idly  down  in  a  way-side  place, 
Where  all  day  long  strange  footsteps  trod, 

And  the  bold,  bright  sun  drank  up  the  dew ! 
Yet  both  were  women.     O  righteous  God, 

Thou  only  canst  judge  between  the  two! 


UNANSWERED 

Where  mountain-peaks  rose  far  and  high 
Into  the  blue,  unclouded  sky, 
And  waves  of  green,  like  billowy  seas. 
Tossed  proudly  in  the  freshening  breeze, 

I  rode  one  morning,  late  in  June. 
The  glad  winds  sang  a  pleasant  tune  ; 
The  air,  like  draughts  of  rarest  wine, 
Made  every  breath  a  joy  divine. 

With  roses  all  the  way  was  bright ; 
Yet  thet-e  ^ipOn  that  upland  height 
The  darlings  of  the  early  spring — 
Blue  violets — were  blossoming. 

And  all  the  meadows,  wide  unrolled. 
Were  green  and  silver,  green  and  gold, 
Where  buttercups  and  daisies  spun 
Their  shining  tissues  in  the  sun. 

Over  its  shallow,  pebbly  bed, 
A  sparkling  river  gayly  sped. 
Nor  cared  that  deeper  waters  bore 
A  grander  freight  from  shore  to  shore. 

It  sung,  it  danced,  it  laughed,  it  played, 
In  sunshine  now,  and  now  in  shade  ; 


1/6  UNANSWERED 

While  every  gnarled  tree  joyed  to  make 
A  greener  garland  for  its  sake. 

Deep  peace  was  in  the  summer  air, 
A  peace  all  nature  seemed  to  share  ; 
Yet  even  there  I  could  not  flee 
The  shadow  of  life's  mystery  ! 

A  farm-house  stood  beside  the  way, 
Low-roofed  and  rambling,  quaint  and  gray  ; 
And  where  the  friendly  door  swung  wide 
Red  roses  climbed  on  either  side. 

And  thither,  down  the  winding  road 
Near  which  the  sparkling  river  flowed, 
In  groups,  in  pairs,  the  neighbors  pressed, 
Each  in  his  Sunday  raiment  dressed. 

A  sober  calm  was  on  each  face  ; 
Sweet  stillness  brooded  o'er  the  place  ; 
Yet  something  of  a  festal  air 
The  youths  and  maidens  seemed  to  wear. 

But,  as  I  passed,  an  idle  breeze 

Swept  through  the  quivering  maple-trees  ; 

Chased  by  the  winds  in  merry  rout, 

A  fair,  light  curtain  floated  out. 

And  this  I  saw  :  a  quiet  room 
Adorned  with  flowers  of  richest  bloom — 
A  lily  here,  a  garland  there — 
Fragrance  and  silence  everywhere. 

Then  on  I  rode.     But  if  a  bride 
Should  there  her  happy  blushes  hide, 
Or  if  beyond  my  vision  lay 
Some  pale  face  shrouded  from  the  day, 


UNANSWERED  177 

I  could  not  tell.     O  joy  and  Pain, 
Your  voices  join  in  one  refrain  ! 
So  like  ye  are,  we  may  not  know 
If  this  be  gladness,  this  be  woe  ! 


THE  CLAY  TO  THE  ROSE 

0  BEAUTIFUL,  royal  Rose, 

0  Rose,  so  fair  and  sweet ! 
Queen  of  the  garden  art  thou, 

And  I— the  Clay  at  thy  feet ! 

The  butterfly  hovers  about  thee  ; 

The  brown  bee  kisses  thy  lips  ; 
And  the  humming-bird,  reckless  rover, 

Their  marvellous  sweetness  sips. 

The  sunshine  hastes  to  caress  thee 

Flying  on  pinions  fleet ; 
The  dew-drop  sleeps  in  thy  bosom, 

But  I— I  lie  at  thy  feet ! 

The  radiant  morning  crowns  thee  : 
And  the  noon's  hot  heart  is  thine ; 

And  the  starry  night  enfolds  thee 
In  the  might  of  its  love  divine  ; 

1  hear  the  warm  rain  whisper 
Its  message  soft  and  sweet ; 

And  the  south-wind's  passionate  murmur, 
While  I  lie  low  at  thy  feet ! 

It  is  not  mine  to  approach  thee  ; 

1  never  may  kiss  thy  lips. 

Or  touch  the  hem  of  thy  garment 
With  tremulous  finger-tips. 


THE  CLAY  TO  THE  ROSE         I79 

Yet,  O  thou  beautiful  Rose  ! 

Queen  rose,  so  fair  and  sweet, 
What  were  lover  or  crown  to  thee 

Without  the  Clay  at  thy  feet  ? 


AT  THE  LAST 

Will  the  day  ever  come,  I  wonder, 

When  I  shall  be  glad  to  know 
That  my  hands  will  be  folded  under 

The  next  white  fall  of  the  snow  ? 
To  know  that  when  next  the  clover 

Wooeth  the  wandering  bee, 
Its  crimson  tide  will  drift  over 

All  that  is  left  of  me  ? 

Will  I  ever  be  tired  of  living, 

And  be  glad  to  go  to  my  rest, 
With  a  cool  and  fragrant  lily 

Asleep  on  my  silent  breast  ? 
Will  my  eyes  grow  weary  of  seeing, 

As  the  hours  pass,  one  by  one, 
Till  I  long  for  the  hush  and  the  darkness 

As  I  never  longed  for  the  sun  ? 

God  knoweth  !     Sometime,  it  may  be, 

I  shall  smile  to  hear  you  say  : 
"  Dear  heart !  she  will  not  waken 

At  the  dawn  of  another  day  !  " 
And  sometime,  love,  it  may  be, 

I  shall  whisper  under  my  breath  : 
"  The  happiest  hour  of  my  life,  dear, 

Is  this — the  hour  of  my  death  !  " 


TO  THE   "  BOUQUET  CLUB  " 

O  Rosebud  garland  of  girls ! 

Who  ask  for  a  song  from  me, 
To  what  sweet  air  shall  I  set  my  lay  ? 

What  shall  its  key-note  be  ? 
The  flowers  have  gone  from  wood  and  hill ; 
The  rippling  river  lies  white  and  still ; 
And  the  birds  that  sang  on  the  maple  bough, 
Afar  in  the  South  are  singing  now  ! 

O  Rosebud  garland  of  girls ! 

If  the  whole  glad  year  were  May  ; 
If  winds  sang  low  in  the  clustering  leaves. 

And  roses  bloomed  alway  ; 
If  youth  were  all  that  there  is  of  life  ; 
If  the  years  brought  nothing  of  care  or  strife, 
Nor  ever  a  cloud  to  the  ether  blue, 
It  were  easy  to  sing  a  song  for  you  ! 

Yet,  O  my  garland  of  girls  ! 

Is  there  nothing  better  than  May  ? 
The  golden  glow  of  the  harvest  time  ! 

The  rest  of  the  Autumn  day  ! 
This  thought  I  give  to  you  all  to  keep  : 
Who  soweth  good  seed  shall  surely  reap  ; 
The  year  grows  rich  as  it  groweth  old, 
And  life's  latest  sands  are  its  sands  of  gold  ! 


EVENTIDE 

Whenever,  with  reverent  footsteps, 
I  pass  through  the  open  door 

Of  Memory's  stately  palace, 
Where  dwell  the  days  of  yore. 

One  scene,  like  a  lovely  vision, 
Coiues  to  me  o'er  and  o'er. 

'Tis  a  dim,  fire-lighted  chamber  ; 

There  are  pictures  on  the  wall ; 
And  around  them  dance  the  shadows 

Grotesque  and  weird  and  tall, 
As  the  flames  on  the  storied  hearth-stone 

Wavering  rise  and  fall. 

An  ancient  cabinet  stands  there, 
That  came  from  beyond  the  seas. 

With  a  breath  of  spicy  odors 
Caught  from  the  Indian  breeze  ; 

And  its  fluted  doors  and  moldings 
Are  dark  with  mysteries . 

There's  an  old  arm-chair  in  the  corner, 
Straight-backed  and  tall  and  quaint ; 

Ah  !  many  a  generation — 
Sinner  and  sage  and  saint — 

It  hath  held  in  its  ample  bosom 
With  murmur  nor  complaint ! 


EVENTIDE  183 

In  the  glow  of  the  fire-light  playing, 

A  tiny,  blithesome  pair, 
With  the  music  of  their  laughter 

Fill  all  the  tranquil  air — 
A  rosy,  brown-eyed  lassie, 

A  boy  serenely  fair.    ~ 

A  woman  sits  in  the  shadow 

Watching  the  children  twain, 
With  a  joy  so  deep  and  tender 

It  is  near  akin  to  pain, 
And  a  smile  and  tear  blend  softly — 

Sunshine  and  April  rain  ! 

Her  heart  keeps  time  to  the  rhythm 

Of  love's  unuttered  prayer, 
As,  with  still  hands  lightly  folded, 

She  listens,  unaware. 
Through  all  the  children's  laughter. 

For  a  footfall  on  the  stair. 

I  know  the  woman  who  sits  there  ; 

Time  hath  been  kind  to  her. 
And  the  years  have  brought  her  treasures 

Of  frankincense  and  myrrh 
Richer,  perhaps,  and  rarer. 

Than  Life's  young  roses  were. 

But  I  doubt  if  ever  her  spirit 

Hath  known,  or  yet  shall  know, 
The  bliss  of  a  happier  hour, 

As  the  swift  years  come  and  go. 
Than  this  in  the  shadowy  chamber 

Lit  by  the  hearth-fire's  glow  I 


MY    LOVERS 

I  HAVE  four  noble  lovers, 

Young  and  gallant,  blithe  and  gay, 
And  in  all  the  land  no  maiden 

Hath  a  goodlier  troupe  than  they ! 
And  never  princess,  guarded 

By  knights  of  high  degree, 
Knew  sweeter,  purer  homage 

Than  my  lovers  pay  to  me  ! 

One  of  my  noble  lovers 

Is  a  self-poised,  thoughtful  man, 
Gravely  gay,  serenely  earnest. 

Strong  to  do,  and  bold  to  plan. 
And  one  is  sweet  and  sunny. 

Pure  as  crystal,  true  as  steel. 
With  a  soul  responding  ever 

When  the  truth  makes  high  appeal. 

And  another  of  my  lovers. 

Bright  and  debonair  is  he. 
Brave  and  ardent,  strong  and  tender, 

And  the  flower  of  courtesie. 
Last  of  all,  an  eager  student, 

Upon  lofty  aims  intent : 
Manly  force  and  gentle  sweetness 

In  his  nature  rarelv  blent. 


MY   LOVERS  185 

But  when  of  noble  lovers 

All  alike  arc  dear  and  true, 
And  her  heart  to  choose  refuses, 

Pray,  what  can  a  woman  do  ? 
Ah,  my  sons  !     For  this  I  bless  ye, 

Even  as  I  myself  am  blest. 
That  I  know  not  which  is  dearest. 

That  I  care  not  which  is  best ! 


THE   LEGEND    OF   THE   ORGAN-BUILDER 

Day   by    day    the    Organ-Builder  in  his  lonely   chamber 

wrought ; 
Day  by  day  the  soft  air  trembled  to  the  music  of  his  thought  ; 

Till  at  last  the  work  was  ended,  and  no  organ  voice  so  grand 
Ever  yet  had  soared  responsive  to  the  master's  magic  hand. 

Ay,  so  rarely  was  it  builded  that  whenever  groom  or  bride 
Who  in  God's  sight  were  well  pleasing  in  the  church  stood 
side  by  side, 

Without  touch  or  breath  the  organ  of  itself  began  to  play. 
And  the  very  airs  of  heaven  through  the  soft  gloom  seemed 
to  stray. 

He  was  young,  the  Organ-Builder,  and  o'er  all  the  land  his 

fame 
Ran  with  fleet  and  eager  footsteps,  like  a  swiftly  rushing  flame. 

All  the  maidens  heard  the  story  ;  all  the  maidens  blushed 
and  smiled, 

By  his  youth  and  wondrous  beauty  and  his  great  renown  be- 
guiled. 

So  he  sought  and  won  the  fairest,  and  the  wedding-day  was 

set : 
Happy  day — the  brightest  jewel  in  the  glad  year's  coronet ! 


THE   LEGEND    OF   THE   ORGAN  BUILDER      1 87 

But  when  they  the  portal  entered,  he  forgot  his  lovely  bride — 
Forgot  his  love,  forgot  his  God,  and  his  heart  swelled  high 
with  pride. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  he,  "  how  great  a  master  am  I  !   When  the 

organ  plays, 
How  the  vast  cathedral  arches  will  re-echo  with  my  praise  !  " 

Up  the  aisle  the  gay  procession  moved.     The  altar  shone 

afar, 
With  its  every  candle  gleaming  through  soft  shadows  like  a 

star. 

But  he  listened,  listened,  listened,  with  no  thought  of  love  or 

prayer. 
For  the  swelhng  notes  of  triumph  from  his  organ  standing 

there. 

All  was   silent.     Nothing  heard  he   save  the    priest's   low 

monotone. 
And  the  bride's  robe  trailing  softly  o'er  the  floor  of  fretted 

stone. 

Then  his  lips  grew  white  with  anger.  Surely  God  was  pleased 

with  him 
Who  had  built  the  wondrous  organ  for  His  temple  vast  and 

dim  ? 

Whose  the  fault,  then  ?    Hers — the  maiden  standing  meekly 

-  at  his  side  ! 
Flamed  his  jealous  rage,  maintaining  she  was  false  to  him — 
his  bride. 

Vain  were  all  her  protestations,  vain  her  innocence   and 

truth  ; 
On  that  very  night  he  left  her  to  her  anguish  and  her  ruth. 


1 88      THE   LEGEND   OF  THE   ORGAN-BUILDER 

Far  he  wandered  to  a  country  wherein  no  man  knew  his  name. 
For  ten  weary  years  he  dwelt  there,  nursing  still  his  wrath 
and  shame. 

Then  his  haughty  heart  grew  softer,  and  he  thought  by  night 

and  day 
Of  the  bride  he  had  deserted,  till  he  hardly  dared  to  pray — 

Thought  of  her,  a  spotless  maiden,  fair  and  beautiful  and 
good  ; 

Thought  of  his  relentless  anger  that  had  cursed  her  woman- 
hood ; 

Till  his  yearning  grief  and  penitence  at  last  were  all  com- 
plete. 

And  he  longed,  with  bitter  longing,  just  to  fall  down  at  her 
feet. 


Ah  !  how  throbbed  his  heart  when,  after  many  a  weary  day 

and  night. 
Rose  his  native  towers  before  him,  with  the  sunset  glow  alight ! 

Through  the  gates  into  the  city  on  he  pressed  with  eager 

tread  ; 
There  he   met  a  long  procession — mourners   following  the 

dead. 

**Now,  why  weep  ye  so,  good  people  ?  and  whom  bury  ye 

to-day  ? 
Why  do  yonder  sorrowing  maidens  scatter  flowers  along  the 

way? 

"  Has  some  saint  gone  up  to  Heaven  ?  "  *'  Yes,"  they  an- 
swered, weeping  sore  : 
**  For  the  Organ-Builder's  saintly  wife  our  eyes  shall  see  no 
more  ; 


THE   LEGEND   OF   THE   ORGAN-BUILDER      1 89 

"  And  because  her  days  were  given  to  the  service  of  God's 

poor, 
From  His  church  we  mean  to  bury  her.    See  !  yonder  is  the 

door." 

No  one  knew  him  ;  no  one  wondered  when  he  cried  out, 

white  with  pain  ; 
No  one  questioned  when,  with  pallid  lips,  he  poured  his 

tears  like  rain . 

"  'Tis  someone  whom  she  has  comforted  who  mourns  with 

us,"  they  said. 
As  he  made  his  way  unchallenged,  and  bore  the  coffin's  head. 

Bore  it  through  the  open  portal,  bore  it  up  the  echoing  aisle, 
Set  it  down  before  the  altar,  where  the  lights  burned  clear 
the  while  : 

When,  oh,  hark  !  the  wondrous  organ  of  itself  began  to  play 
Strains  of  rare,  unearthly  sweetness  never  heard  until  that 
day ! 

All  the  vaulted  arches  rang  with  the  music  sweet  and  clear  ; 
.   All  the  air  was  filled  with  glory,  as  of  angels  hovering  near  ; 

And  ere  yet  the  strain  was  ended,  he  who  bore  the  coffin's 

head. 
With  the  smile  of  one  forgiven,  gently  sank  beside  it — dead. 

They  who  raised  the  body  knew  him,  and  they  laid  him  by 

his  bride ; 
Down  the  aisle  and  o'er  the  threshold  they  were  carried  side 

by  side  ; 

While  the  organ  played  a  dirge  that  no  man  ever  heard  be- 
fore. 
And  then  softly  sank  to  silence — silence  kept  for  evermore. 


BUTTERFLY   AND   BABY   BLUE 

Butterfly  and  Baby  Blue, 

Did  you  come  together 
Floating  down  the  summer  skies, 

In  the  summer  weather  ? 
Seems  to  me  you're  much  alike. 

Airy,  fairy  creatures, 
Though  I  small  resemblance  find 

In  your  tiny  features  ! 

Butterfly  has  gauzy  wings. 

Bright  with  jewelled  splendor  ; 
Baby  Blue  has  pink-white  arms, 

Rosy,  warm,  and  tender. 
Butterfly  has  golden  rings. 

Charming  each  beholder  ; 
Baby  wears  a  knot  of  blue 

On  each  dimpled  shoulder. 

Butterfly  is  never  still, 

Always  in  a  flutter  ; 
And  of  dainty  Baby  Blue 

The  same  truth  I  utter  ! 
Butterfly  on  happy  wing 

In  the  sunshine  dances  ; 
Baby  Blue  for  sunshine  has 

Mother's  smiles  and  glances  ! 


BUTTERFLY  AND  BABY  BLUE       19I 

Butterfly  seeks  honey-dew 

In  a  lily  palace  ; 
Baby  Blue  finds  nectar  sweet 

In  a  snow-white  chalice. 
Butterfly  will  furl  its  wings 

When  the  air  grows  colder  ; 
While  dear  Baby  Blue  will  be 

Just  a  trifle  older  ! 

Ah  !  the  days  are  growing  short, 

Soon  the  birds  will  leave  us, 
And  of  all  the  garden  flowers 

Cruel  frost  bereave  us. 
Butterfly  and  Baby  Blue, 

Do  not  go  together, 
Sailing  through  the  autumn  skies 

In  the  autumn  weather  ! 


KING  IVAN'S  OATH 

King  Ivan  ruled  a  mighty  land 

Girt  by  the  sea  on  either  hand  ; 

A  goodly  land  as  e'er  the  sun 

In  its  long  journey  looked  upon  ! 

His  knights  were  loyal,  brave,  and  true, 

Eager  their  lord's  behests  to  do  ; 

His  counsellors  were  wise  and  just. 

Nor  ever  failed  his  kingly  trust  ; 

The  nations  praised  him,  and  the  state 

Grew  powerful,  and  rich,  and  great ; 

While  still  with  long  and  loud  acclaim, 

His  people  hailed  their  monarch's  name  ! 

Fronting  the  east,  a  stately  pile. 

The  palace  caught  the  sun's  first  smile  ; 

Lightly  its  domes  and  arches  sprung, 

As  earth's  glad  hills  when  earth  was  young 

And  miracles  of  airy  grace, 

Each  tower  and  turret  soared  in  space. 

Within But  here  no  rhythmic  flow 

Of  words  with  light  and  warmth  aglow 
Can  tell  the  story.     Not  more  fair 
Are  your  own  castles  hung  in  air  ! 
Painter  and  sculptor  there  had  wrought 
The  utmost  beauty  of  their  thought ; 
There  the  rich  fruit  of  Persian  looms 
Glowed  darkly  bright  as  tropic  blooms  ; 


KING   IVAN'S   OATH  193 

There  fell  the  light  like  golden  mist, 
Filtered  through  clouds  of  amethyst  ; 
There  bright-winged  birds  and  odorous  flowers 
With  song  and  fragrance  filled  the  hours  ; 
There  Pleasure  flung  the  portals  wide, 
And  soul  and  sense  were  satisfied  ! 

The  queen  ?     No  fairer  face  than  hers 
E'er  smiled  upon  its  worshippers  ; 
And  she  was  good  as  fair,  'twas  said, 
And  loved  the  king  ere  they  were  wed. 
And  he  ?     No  doubt  he  loved  her,  too, 
After  a  kingly  fashion — knew 
She  had  a  right  his  throne  to  share. 
And  would  be  mother  of  his  heir. 
But  yet,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
Sometimes  forgot  his  royalty — 
Forgot  his  kingly  crown,  and  then 
Loved,  and  made  love,  like  other  men  ! 

There  seemed  no  shadow  near  the  throne  ; 

Yet  oft  the  great  king  walked  alone, 

Hands  clasped  behind  him,  head  bowed  down, 

And  on  his  royal  face  a  frown. 

Sat  Mordecai  within  his  gate  ? 

What  scoffing  spectre  mocked  his  state  ? 

What  demon  held  him  in  a  spell  ? 

Alas  !  the  sweet  queen  knew  too  well ! 

Apples  of  Sodom  ate  he,  since 

She  had  not  borne  to  him  a  prince, 

Though  thrice  his  hope  had  budded  fair, 

And  he  had  counted  on  an  heir. 

Three  little  daughters,  dainty  girls 

With  sunshine  tangled  in  their  curls, 

Bloomed  in  the  palace  ;  but  no  son— 


194  KING   IVAN'S   OATH 

The  long-expected,  waited  one, 
Flower  of  the  state,  and  pride  of  all — 
Grew  at  the  king's  side,  straight  and  tall ! 

The  king  was  angered.     It  may  be 
No  worse  than  other  men  was  he  ; 
But — a  high  tower  upon  a  hill — 
His  light  shone  far  for  good  or  ill ! 
In  from  the  chase  one  day  he  rode  ; 
To  the  queen's  chamber  fierce  he  strode  ; 
Where  bending  o'er  her  'broidery  frame, 
Her  pale  cheeks  burned  with  sudden  flame 
At  his  quick  coming.     Up  she  rose. 
Stirred  from  her  wonted  calm  repose, 
A  lily  flushing  when  the  sun 
Its  stately  beauty  looked  upon  ! 
Alas  !  alas  !  so  blind  was  he — 
Or  else  he  did  not  care  to  see — 
He  had  no  pity,  though  she  stood 
In  perfect  flower  of  womanhood  ! 
"  You  bear  to  me  no  son,"  he  said  ; 
Then  flinging  back  his  haughty  head  : 
"  Each  base-born  peasant  has  an  heir, 
His  name  to  keep,  his  crust  to  share. 
While  I — the  king  of  this  broad  land — 
Have  no  son  near  my  throne  to  stand  ! 
Who,  then,  shall  reign  when  I  am  dead  ? 
Who  wield  the  sceptre  in  my  stead  ? 
Inherit  all  my  pride  and  power, 
And  wear  my  glory  as  his  dower  ? 
Give  me  a  man-child,  who  shall  be 
Lord  of  the  realm,  himself,  and  me  !  " 

Then  pallid  lips  made  slow  reply — 
"  God  ordereth.     Not  you  nor  I  !  " 


KING  IVAN'S  OATH  1 95 

His  brow  flushed  hot ;  a  sudden  clang 

As  of  arms  throughout  the  chamber  rang, 

And  turning  on  his  heel,  he  threw 

Back  wrathful  answer  :  **  That  may  do 

For  puling  women — not  for  me  ! 

Now,  by  my  good  sword,  we  shall  see  ! 

So  help  me  Heaven,  1  will  not  brook 

On  a  girl's  face  again  to  look  ! 

And  when  you  next  shall  bear  a  child, 

Though  fair  a  babe  as  ever  smiled, 

If  it  be  not  a  princely  heir. 

By  all  the  immortal  gods,  I  swear 

I  ne'er  will  speak  to  it,  nor  break 

My  soul's  stern  silence  for  Love's  sake  !  " 

Then  forth  he  fared  and  rode  away. 

Nor  saw  the  queen  again  that  day — 

The  hapless  queen,  who  to  the  floor 

Sank  prone  and  breathless,  as  the  door 

Swung  to  behind  him,  and  his  tread 

Down  the  long  arches  echoed. 

In  truth  she  was  in  sorry  plight 

When  her  maids  found  her  late  that  night. 

The  king  learned  that  which  spoiled  his  rest. 

But  kept  the  secret  in  his  breast ! 


At  length,  when  months  had  duly  sped, 
High  streamed  the  banners  overhead. 
And  all  the  bells  rang  out  at  morn 
In  jubilant  peals — a  Prince  was  born  ! 
Now  let  the  joyous  music  ring  ! 
Now  let  the  merry  minstrels  sing ! 
Now  pour  the  wine  and  crown  the  feast 
With  fruits  and  flowers  of  all  the  East ! 


196  KING  IVAN'S  OATH 

Now  let  the  votive  candles  shine 
And  garlands  bloom  on  every  shrine  ! 
Now  let  the  young,  with  flying  feet 
Time  to  bewildering  music  beat, 
And  let  the  old  their  joys  rehearse 
In  stirring  tale,  or  flowing  verse  ! 
Now  fill  with  shouts  the  waiting  air, 
And  scatter  largess  everywhere  ! 

Ah  !  who  so  happy  as  the  king  ? 

Swift  flew  the  hours  on  eager  wing  ; 

And  the  boy  grew  apace,  until 

The  second  summer,  sweet  and  still, 

Dropped  roses  round  him  as  he  played 

Where  arched  the  leafy  colonnade. 

How  fair  he  was  tongue  cannot  say, 

But  he  was  fairer  than  the  day  ; 

And  never  princely  coronet 

On  brow  of  nobler  mould  was  set ; 

Nor  ever  did  its  jewels  gleam 

Above  an  eye  of  brighter  beam  ; 

And  never  yet  where  sunshine  falls. 

Flooding  with  light  the  cottage  walls, 

'Mid  hum  of  bee,  or  song  of  birds, 

Or  tenderest  breath  of  loving  words, 

Blossomed  a  sweeter  child  than  he  ! 

How  the  king  joyed  his  strength  to  see, 

Counting  the  weeks  that  flew  so  fast — 

Each  fuller,  happier  than  the  last ! 

Six  months  had  passed  since  he  could  walk  ; 

Was  it  not  time  the  prince  should  talk  ? 

Ah  !  baby  words  with  tripping  feet ! 

Ah  !  baby  laughter,  silver  sweet ! 

At  length  within  the  palace  rose 
Rumor  so  strange  that  friends  and  foes 


KING  IVAN'S   OATH  1 97 

Forgot  their  love,  forgot  their  hate, 

Pausing  to  croon  and  speculate. 

Vague  whispers  floated  in  the  air  ; 

A  hint  of  mystery  here  and  there  ; 

A  sudden  hush,  a  startled  glance. 

Quick  silences  and  looks  askance. 

Thus  day  by  day  the  wonder  grew, 

Till  o'er  the  kingdom  wide  it  flew. 

The  prince — his  father — what  was  this 

Strange  tale  so  surely  told  amiss  ? 

The  young  prince  dumb  ?     Who  dared  to  say 

That  nature  such  a  prank  could  play  ? 

Dumb  to  the  king  ?     In  silence  bound. 

With  voiceless  lips  that  gave  no  sound 

When  the  king  questioned  ? — Yet,  no  lute. 

Nor  chiming  bell,  nor  silver  flute, 

Nor  lark's  song,  high  in  ether  hung. 

Rang  clearer  than  the  prince's  tongue  ! 

The  court  physicians  came  and  went ; 

Learned  men  from  all  the  continent 

Gave  wise  opinions,  talked  of  laws. 

Stroked  their  gray  beards,  nor  found  the  cause. 

Then  bribes  were  tried,  and  threats.     The  child. 

As  one  bewildered,  sighed  and  smiled, 

In  a  wild  storm  of  weeping  broke. 

Moved  its  red  hps,  but  never  spoke. 

The  changeful  years  rolled  on  apace  ; 

The  young  prince  wore  a  bearded  face  ; 

The  good  queen  died  ;  the  king  grew  gray  ; 

A  generation  passed  away. 

Courtiers  forgot  to  tell  the  tale  ; 

Gossip  itself  grew  old  and  stale. 

But  never  once,  in  all  the  years 

That  bore  such  freight  of  joys  and  tears, 


198  KING  IVAN'S   OATH 

Was  the  spell  broken  :  not  one  word 
From  son  to  sire  was  ever  heard. 
Mutely  his  father's  face  he  scanned — 
Mutely  he  clasped  his  aged  hand — 
Mutely  he  kissed  him  when  at  last 
To  death's  long  slumber  forth  he  passed  ! 
Come  weal  or  woe,  he  could  not  break 
The  mystic  silence  for  Love's  sake  ! 


AT  DAWN 

At  dawn,  when  the  jubilant  morning  broke, 
And  its  glory  flooded  the  mountain  side, 

I  said,  **  'Tis  eleven  years  to-day, 
Eleven  years  since  my  darling  died  !  " 

And  then  I  turned  to  my  household  ways. 
To  my  daily  tasks,  without,  within, 

As  happily  busy  all  the  day 
As  if  my  darling  had  never  been ! — 

As  if  she  had  never  lived,  or  died  ! 

Yet  when  they  buried  her  out  of  my  sight 
I  thought  the  sun  had  gone  down  at  noon. 

And  the  day  could  never  again  be  bright. 

Ah,  well !     As  the  swift  years  come  and  go, 
It  will  not  be  long  ere  I  shall  lie 

Somewhere  under  a  bit  of  turf. 

With  my  pale  hands  folded  quietly. 

And  then  someone  who  has  loved  me  well — 
Perhaps  the  one  who  has  loved  me  best — 

Will  say  of  me  as  I  said  of  her, 
"  She  has  been  just  so  many  years  at  rest  "• 

Then  turn  to  the  living  loves  again. 
To  the  busy  life,  without,  within. 

And  the  day  will  go  on  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Even  as  if  I  had  never  been  ! 


200  AT  DAWN 

Dear  hearts !  dear  hearts  !     It  must  still  be  so ! 

The  roses  will  bloom,  and  the  stars  will  shine, 
And  the  soft  green  grass  creep  still  and  slow, 

Sometime  over  a  grave  of  mine — 

And  over  the  grave  in  your  hearts  as  well ! 

Ye  cannot  hinder  it  if  ye  would  ; 
And  I — ah  !  I  shall  be  wiser  then — 

I  would  not  hinder  it  if  I  could  ! 


IN  MEMORIAM 

[Cyrus  M.  and  Mary  Ripley  Fisher,  lost  on  steamship  Atlantic, 
April  I,  1873.] 

Once,  long  ago,  with  trembling  lips  I  sung 

Of  one  who,  when  the  earliest  flowers  were  seen, 

So  sweet,  so  dear,  so  beautiful  and  young. 

Came  home  to  sleep  where  kindred  graves  were  green. 

Soft  was  the  turf  we  raised  to  give  her  room  ; 

Clear  were  the  rain-drops,  shining  as  they  fell ; 
Sweet  the  arbutus,  with  its  tender  bloom 

Brightening  the  couch  of  her  who  loved  it  well. 

Yet,  in  our  blindness,  how  we  wept  that  day,  ' 
When  the  earth  fell  upon  her  coffin-lid  ! 

O,  ye  beloved  whom  I  sing  this  day. 

Could  we  but  know  where  your  dear  forms  lie  hid  I 

Could  we  but  lay  you  down  by  her  dear  side. 
Wrapped  in  the  garments  of  eternal  rest, 

Where  the  still  hours  in  slow  succession  glide. 
And  not  a  dream  may  stir  the  pulseless  breast — 

Where  all  day  long  the  shadows  come  and  go, 

And  soft  winds  murmur  and  sweet  song-birds  sing — 

Where  all  night  long  the  star-light's  tender  glow 

Falls  where  the  flowers  you  loved  are  blossoming — 


202  IN    MEMORIAM 

Then  should  the  tempest  ofour  grief  grow  calm  ; 

Then  moaning  gales  should  vex  our  souls  no  more ; 
And  the  clear  swelling  ofour  thankful  psalm 

Should  drown  the  beat  of  surges  on  the  shore. 

But  the  deep  sea  will  not  give  up  its  dead. 

O,  ye  who  know  where  your  beloved  sleep, 
Bid  heart's-ease  bloom  on  each  love-guarded  bed, 

And  bless  your  God  for  graves  whereon  to  weep  ! 


WEAVING  THE  WEB 

**This  morn  I  will  weave  my  web,"  she  said, 

As  she  stood  by  her  loom  in  the  rosy  light. 
And  her  young  eyes,  hopefully  glad  and  clear. 

Followed  afar  the  swallow's  flight. 
**  As  soon  as  the  day's  first  tasks  are  done, 

While  yet  I  am  fresh  and  strong,"  said  she, 
"  I  will  hasten  to  weave  the  beautiful  web 

Whose  pattern  is  known  to  none  but  me  ! 

*'  I  will  weave  it  fine,  I  will  weave  it  fair. 

And  ah !  how  the  colors  will  glow !  "  she  said  ; 
**  So  fadeless  and  strong  will  I  weave  my  web 

That  perhaps  it  will  live  after  I  am  dead." 
But  the  morning  hours  sped  on  apace  ; 

The  air  grew  sweet  with  the  breath  of  June  ; 
And  young  Love  hid  by  the  waiting  loom, 

Tangling  the  threads  as  he  hummed  a  tune. 

"Ah,  life  is  so  rich  and  full !  "  she  cried, 

"  And  morn  is  short  though  the  days  are  long  ! 
This  noon  I  will  weave  my  beautiful  web, 

I  will  weave  it  carefully,  fine  and  strong." 
But  the  sun  rode  high  in  the  cloudless  sky  ; 

The  burden  and  heat  of  the  day  she  bore 
And  hither  and  thither  she  came  and  went. 

While  the  loom  stood  still  as  it  stood  before. 


204  WEAVING  THE   WEB 

*'  Ah  !  life  is  too  busy  at  noon,"  she  said  ; 

"  My  web  must  wait  till  the  eventide, 
Till  the  common  work  of  the  day  is  done. 

And  my  heart  grows  calm  in  the  silence  wide." 
So,  one  by  one,  the  hours  passed  on 

Till  the  creeping  shadows  had  longer  grown  ; 
Till  the  house  was  still,  and  the  breezes  slept, 

And  her  singing  birds  to  their  nests  had  flown. 

**  And  now  I  will  weave  my  web,"  she  said, 

As  she  turned  to  her  loom  ere  set  of  sun. 
And  laid  her  hand  on  the  shining  threads 

To  set  them  in  order  one  by  one. 
But  hand  was  tired,  and  heart  was  weak  : 

"  I  am  not  as  strong  as  I  was,"  sighed  she, 
**  And  the  pattern  is  blurred,  and  the  colors  rare 

Are  not  so  bright,  or  so  fair  to  see  ! 

*'  I  must  wait,  I  think,  till  another  morn  ; 

I  must  go  to  my  rest  with  my  work  undone  ; 
It  is  growing  too  dark  to  weave  !  "  she  cried. 

As  lower  and  lower  sank  the  sun. 
She  dropped  the  shuttle  ;  the  loom  stood  still  ; 

The  weaver  slept  in  the  twilight  gray. 
Dear  heart !     Will  she  weave  her  beautiful  web 

In  the  golden  light  of  a  longer  day  ? 


THE  ''CHRISTUS"  OF  THE  PASSION  PLAY  OF 
OBERAMMERGAU 

How  does  life  seem  to  thee  ?     I  long  to  look 
Into  thine  inmost  soul,  and  see  if  thou 
Art  even  as  other  men  !     Oh,  set  apart 
And  consecrate  so  long  to  purpose  high, 
Canst  thou  take  up  again  our  common  lot, 
And  live  as  we  live  ?     Canst  thou  buy  and  sell, 
Stoop  to  small  needs,  and  petty  ministries, 
Work  and  get  gain,  eat,  drink,  and  soundly  sleep, 
Sin  and  repent,  as  these  thy  brethren  do  ? 
Unto  what  name  less  sacred  answerest  thou 
Who  hast  been  called  the  Christ  of  Nazareth  ? 
Thou  who  hast  worn  the  awful  crown  of  thorns, 
Hanging  like  Him  upon  the  dreatful  Tree, 
Canst  thou,  uncrowned,  forget  thy  royalty  ? 


RABBI    BENAIAH 

Rabbi  Benaiah  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  the  low  sun  athwart  the  level  sands 
Shot  his  long  arrows,  from  far  Eastern  lands 

Homeward  across  the  desert  bent  his  way. 

Behind  him  trailed  the  lengthening  caravan — 
The  slow,  weird  camels,  with  monotonous  pace  ; 
Before  him,  lifted  in  the  clear,  far  space. 

From  east  to  west  the  towers  of  his  city  ran  ! 

Impatiently  he  scanned  the  darkening  sky  ; 
Then  girding  in  hot  haste,  ''  What  ho  !  "  cried  he, 
*'  Bring  the  swift  steed  Abdallah  unto  me  I 

As  rode  his  Bedouin  master,  so  will  I !  " 

Soon  like  a  bird  across  the  waste  he  flew. 
Nor  drew  his  rein  till  at  the  massive  gate 
That  guards  the  citadel's  supremest  state 

He  paused  a  moment,  slowly  entering  through. 

Then  down  the  shadowy,  moonlit  streets  he  sped  ; 
The  city  slept  ;  but  like  a  burning  star, 
Where  his  own  turret-chamber  rose  afar, 

A  clear,  strong  light  its  steady  radiance  shed  ! 

Into  his  court  he  rode  with  sudden  clang. 
The  startled  slaves  bowed  low,  but  spake  no  word 
By  no  quick  tumult  was  the  midnight  stirred. 

No  shouts  of  welcome  on  the  night  air  rang  ! 


RABBI   BENAIAH  20/ 

But  with  slow  footsteps  down  the  turret-stairs, 

With  trembHng  lips  that  hardly  breathed  his  name, 
And  sad,  averted  eyes,  his  fair  wife  came— 

The  lady  Judith— wan  with  tears  and  prayers. 

Then  swift  he  cried  out,  less  in  wrath  than  fear, 
*'  Now,  by  my  beard  !  is  this  the  way  ye  keep 
My  welcome  home  ?     Go  !  wake  my  sons  from  sleep. 

And  let  their  glad  tongues  break  the  silence  here  !  " 

*'  Not  so,  my  dear  lord  !     Let  them  rest,"  she  said. 

**  Young  eyes  need  slumber.     But  come  thou  with  me. 

I  have  a  trouble  to  make  known  to  thee 
Ere  I  before  thee  can  lift  up  my  head." 

Into  an  inner  chamber  led  she  him. 

And  with  her  own  hands  brought  him  meat  and  wine, 

A  purple  robe,  and  linen  pure  and  fine. 
He  half  forgot  that  her  sweet  eyes  were  dim  ! 

"  Now  for  thy  trouble  !  "  cried  he,  laughing  loud. 

**  Hast  torn  thy  kirtle  ?     Are  thy  pearls  astray  ? 

What !     Tears  ?     My  camels  o'er  yon  desert  way 
Bring  treasures  that  had  made  Queen  Esther  proud  !  " 

Slowly  she  spake,  nor  in  his  face  looked  she. 
'*  My  lord,  long  years  ago  a  friend  of  mine 
Left  with  me  jewels,  costly,  rare,  and  fine, 

Bidding  me  guard  them  carefully  till  he 

"  Again  should  call  for  them.     The  other  day 
He  sent  his  messenger.     But  I  have  learned 
To  prize  them  as  my  own  !     Have  I  not  earned 

A  right  to  keep  them  ?     Speak,  my  lord,  I  pray !  " 

"  Strange  sense  of  honor  hath  a  woman's  heart !  " 
The  rabbi  answered  hotly.     **  Now,  good  lack ! 


208  RABBI   BENAIAH 

Where  are  the  jewels  ?     I  will  send  them  back 
Ere  yet  the  sun  upon  his  course  may  start ! 

**  Show  me  the  jewels  ! "     Up  she  rose  as  white 
As  any  ghost,  and  mutely  led  the  way 
Into  the  turret-chamber  whence  the  ray 

Seen  from  afar  had  blessed  the  rabbi's  sight. 

Then  with  slow,  trembling  hands  she  drew  aside 
The  silken  curtain  from  before  the  bed 
Whereon,  in  snowy  calm,  their  boys  lay  dead. 

*'  There  are  the  jewels,  O,  my  lord  !  "  she  cried. 


A    CHILD'S    THOUGHT 

Softly  fell  the  twilight ; 

In  the  glowing  west 
Purple  splendors  faded ; 

Birds  had  gone  to  rest ; 
All  the  winds  were  sleeping ; 

One  lone  whip-poor-will 
Made  the  silence  deeper, 

Calling  from  the  hill. 

Silently,  serenely, 

From  his  mother's  knee, 
In  the  gathering  darkness. 

Still  as  still  could  be, 
A  young  child  watched  the  shadows  ; 

Saw  the  stars  come  out ; 
Saw  the  weird  bats  flitting 

Stealthily  about ; 

Saw  across  the  river 

How  the  furnace  glow, 
Like  a  fiery  pennant, 

Wavered  to  and  fro  ; 
Saw  the  tall  trees  standing 

Black  against  the  sky. 
And  the  moon's  pale  crescent 

Swinging  far  and  high. 

Deeper  grew  the  darkness  ; 
Darker  grew  his  eyes 


2IO  A   child's   thought 

As  he  gazed  around  him. 

In  a  still  surprise. 
Then  intently  listening, 

"  What  is  this  I  hear 
All  the  time,  dear  mother, 

Sounding  in  my  ear  ?  " 

'*  I  hear  nothing,"  said  she, 

"  Earth  is  hushed  and  still." 
But  he  hearkened,  hearkened, 

With  an  eager  will. 
Till  at  length  a  quick  smile 

O'er  the  child-face  broke, 
And  a  kindling  lustre 

In  his  dark  eyes  woke. 

"  Listen,  listen,  mother  ! 

For  I  hear  the  sound 
Of  the  wheels,  the  great  wheels 

That  move  the  world  around  !  " 
Oh,  ears  earth  has  dulled  not ! 

In  your  purer  sphere, 
Strains  from  ours  withholden 

Are  you  wise  to  hear  ? 


"GOD   KNOWS" 

Wild  and  dark  was  the  winter  night 

When  the  emigrant  ship  went  down, 
But  just  outside  of  the  harbor  bar, 

In  the  sight  of  the  startled  town. 
The  winds  howled,  and  the  sea  roared, 

And  never  a  soul  could  sleep, 
Save  the  little  ones  on  their  mothers'  breasts, 

Too  young  to  watch  and  weep. 

No  boat  could  live  in  the  angry  surf, 

No  rope  could  reach  the  land  : 
There  were  bold,  brave  hearts  upon  the  shore, 

There  was  many  a  ready  hand — 
Women  who  prayed,  and  men  who  strove 

When  prayers  and  work  were  vain  ; 
For  the  sun  rose  over  the  awful  void 

And  the  silence  of  the  main. 

All  day  the  watchers  paced  the  sands, 

All  day  they  scanned  the  deep, 
All  night  the  booming  minute-guns 

Echoed  from  steep  to  steep. 
"  Give  up  thy  dead,  O  cruel  sea !  " 

They  cried  athwart  the  space  ; 
But  only  an  infant's  fragile  form 

Escaped  from  its  stern  embrace. 

Only  one  little  child  of  all 

Who  with  the  ship  went  down 


212  "  GOD    KNOWS 

That  night  when  the  happy  babies  slept 
So  warm  in  the  sheltered  town. 

Wrapped  in  the  glow  of  the  morning  light. 
It  lay  on  the  shifting  sand, 

As  fair  as  a  sculptor's  marble  dream, 
With  a  shell  in  its  dimpled  hand. 

There  were  none  to  tell  of  its  race  or  kin. 

*'  God  knoweth,"  the  pastor  said, 
When  the  wondering  children  asked  of  him 

The  name  of  the  baby  dead. 
And  so,  when  they  laid  it  away  at  last 

In  the  church-yard's  hushed  repose, 
They  raised  a  stone  at  the  baby's  head, 

With  the  carven  words,  "  God  knows." 


THE    MOUNTAIN    ROAD 

f 
Only  a  glimpse  of  mountain  road 

That  followed  where  a  river  flowed  ; 

Only  a  glimpse — then  on  we  passed 

Skirting  the  forest  dim  and  vast. 

I  closed  my  eyes.     On  rushed  the  train 
Into  the  dark,  then  out  again, 
Startling  the  song-birds  as  it  flew 
The  wild  ravines  and  gorges  through. 

But,  heeding  not  the  dangerous  way 
O'erhung  by  sheer  cliffs,  rough  and  gray, 
I  only  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  road  beside  the  mountain  stream. 

No  smoke  curled  upward  in  the  air, 
No  meadow-lands  stretched  broad  and  fair ; 
But  towering  peaks  rose  far  and  high. 
Piercing  the  clear,  untroubled  sky. 

Yet  down  the  yellow,  winding  road 
That  followed  where  the  river  flowed, 
I  saw  a  long  procession  pass 
As  shadows  over  bending  grass. 

The  young,  the  old,  the  sad,  the  gay, 
Whose  feet  had  worn  that  narrow  way, 
Since  first  within  the  dusky  glade 
Some  Indian  lover  wooed  his  maid ; 


214  THE  MOUNTAIN  ROAD 

Or  silent  crept  from  tree  to  tree — 

Spirit  of  stealthy  vengeance,  he  ! 

Or  breathless  crouched  while  through  the  brake 

The  wild  deer  stole  his  thirst  to  slake. 

The  barefoot  school-boys  rushing  out, 
An  eager,  crowding,  roisterous  rout ; 
The  sturdy  lads  ;  the  lassies  gay 
As  bobolinks  in  merry  May  ; 

The  farmer  whistling  to  his  team 
When  first  the  dawn  begins  to  gleam  ; 
The  loaded  wains  that  one  by  one 
Drag  slowly  home  at  set  of  sun  ; 

Young  lovers  straying  hand  in  hand 
Within  a  fair,  enchanted  land  ; 
And  many  a  bride  with  lingering  feet ; 
And  many  a  matron  calm  and  sweet ; 

And  many  an  old  man  bent  with  pain ; 
And  many  a  solemn  funeral  train  ; 
And  sometimes,  red  against  the  sky, 
An  army's  banners  waving  high  ! 

All  mysteries  of  life  and  death 
To  which  the  spirit  answereth, 
Are  thine,  O  lonely  mountain  road, 
That  followed  where  the  river  flowed  ! 


ENTERING    IN 

The  church  was  dim  and  silent 

With  the  hush  before  the  prayer, 
Only  the  solemn  trembling 

Of  the  organ  stirred  the  air  ; 
Without,  the  sweet,  still  sunshine  ; 

Within,  the  holy  calm 
Where  priest  and  people  waited 

For  the  swelling  of  the  psalm. 

Slowly  the  door  swung  open, 

And  a  trembling  baby  girl, 
Brown-eyed,  with  brown  hair  falling 

In  many  a  wavy  curl, 
With  soft  cheeks  flushing  hotly, 

Shy  glances  downward  thrown, 
And  small  hands  clasped  before  her. 

Stood  in  the  aisle  alone. 

Stood  half  abashed,  half  frightened, 

Unknowing  where  to  go. 
While  like  a  wind-rocked  flower. 

Her  form  swayed  to  and  fro, 

And  the  changing  color  fluttered 
In  the  little  troubled  face. 

As  from  side  to  side  she  wavered 
With  a  mute,  imploring  grace. 


2l6  ENTERING   IN 

It  was  but  for  a  moment ; 

What  wonder  that  we  smiled, 
By  such  a  strange,  sweet  picture 

From  holy  thoughts  beguiled  ? 
Then  up  rose  someone  softly  : 

And  many  an  eye  grew  dim, 
As  through  the  tender  silence 

He  bore  the  child  with  him. 

And  I — I  wondered  (losing 

The  sermon  and  the  prayer) 
If  when  sometime  I  enter 

The  **many  mansions"  fair, 
And  stand,  abashed  and  drooping, 

In  the  portal's  golden  glow. 
Our  God  will  send  an  angel 

To  show  me  where  to  so ! 


A   FLOWER   FOR    THE    DEAD 

You  placed  this  flower  in  her  hand,  you  say  ? 

This  pure,  pale  rose  in  her  hand  of  clay  ? 

Could  she  but  lift  her  sealed  eyes. 

They  would  meet  your  own  with  a  grieved  surprise  ! 

She  has  been  your  wife  for  many  a  year, 

When  clouds  hung  low  and  when  skies  were  clear ; 

At  your  feet  she  laid  her  life's  glad  spring, 

And  her  summer's  glorious  blossoming. 

Her  whole  heart  went  with  the  hand  you  won  ; 
If  its  warm  love  waned  as  the  years  went  on, 
If  it  chilled  in  the  grasp  of  an  icy  spell. 
What  was  the  reason  ?     I  pray  you  tell ! 

You  cannot  ?     I  can  ;  and  beside  her  bier 
My  soul  must  speak  and  your  soul  must  hear. 
If  she  was  not  all  that  she  might  have  been. 
Hers  was  the  sorrow,  yours  the  sin. 

Whose  was  the  fault  if  she  did  not  grow 
Like  a  rose  in  the  summer  ?     Do  you  know  ? 
Does  a  lily  grow  when  its  leaves  are  chilled  ? 
Does  it  bloom  when  its  root  is  winter-killed  ? 

For  a  little  while,  when  you  first  were  wed. 
Your  love  was  like  sunshine  round  her  shed ; 
Then  a  something  crept  between  you  two. 
You  led  where  she  could  not  follow  you. 


2l8  A   FLOWER   FOR   THE   DEAD 

With  a  man's  firm  tread  you  went  and  came  ; 
You  lived  for  wealth,  for  power,  for  fame ; 
Shut  in  to  her  woman's  work  and  ways, 
She  heard  the  nation  chant  your  praise. 

But  ah !  you  had  dropped  her  hand  the  while  ; 
What  time  had  you  for  a  kiss,  a  smile  ? 
You  two,  with  the  same  roof  overhead, 
Were  as  far  apart  as  the  sundered  dead  ! 

You,  in  your  manhood's  strength  and  prime  ; 
She,  worn  and  faded  before  her  time. 
'Tis  a  common  story.     This  rose,  you  say, 
You  laid  in  her  pallid  hand  to-day  ? 

When  did  you  give  her  a  flower  before  ? 
Ah,  well ! — what  matter  when  all  is  o'er  ? 
Yet  stay  a  moment  ;  you'll  wed  again. 
I  mean  no  reproach  ;  'tis  the  way  of  men. 

But  I  pray  you  think  when  some  fairer  face 
Shines  like  a  star  from  her  wonted  place. 
That  love  will  starve  if  it  is  not  fed  ; 
That  true  hearts  pray  for  their  daily  bread. 


THOU    KNOWEST 

Thou  knowest,  O  my  Father  !     Why  should  I 

Weary  high  heaven  with  restless  prayers  and  tears  ? 

Thou  knowest  all !     My  heart's  unuttered  cry 

Hath  soared  beyond  the  stars  and  reached  Thine  ears. 

Thou  knowest— ah,  Thou  knowest !  Then  what  need, 
O,  loving  God,  to  tell  Thee  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  with  persistent  iteration  plead 

As  one  who  crieth  at  some  closed  door  ? 

**  Tease  not !  "  we  mothers  to  our  children  say — 
"  Our  wiser  love  will  grant  whate'er  is  best." 

Shall  we,  Thy  children,  run  to  Thee  alway. 
Begging  for  this  and  that  in  wild  unrest  ? 

I  dare  not  clamor  at  the  heavenly  gate. 
Lest  I  should  lose  the  high,  sweet  strains  within  ; 

O,  Love  Divine  !  I  can  but  stand  and  wait 
Till  Perfect  Wisdom  bids  me  enter  in  ! 


WINTER 

O  MY  roses,  lying  underneath  the  snow  ! 
Do  you  still  remember  summer's  warmth  and  glow  ? 
Do  you  thrill,  remembering  how  your  blushes  burned 
When  the  Day-god  on  you  ardent  glances  turned  ? 

Great  tree,  wildly  stretching  bare  arms  up  to  heaven, 
Do  you  think  how  softly,  on  some  warm  June  even, 
All  your  young  leaves  whispered,  all  your  birds  sang  low, 
As  with  rhythmic  motion  boughs  swayed  to  and  fro  ? 

River,  lying  whitely  in  a  frozen  sleep. 
Know  you  how  your  pulses  used  to  throb  and  leap  ? 
How  you  danced  and  sparkled  on  your  happy  way, 
In  the  summer  mornings  when  the  world  was  gay  ? 

Dear  Earth,  dumbly  waiting  God's  appointed  time, 
Are  you  faint  with  longing  for  the  voice  sublime  ? 
Wrapped  in  stony  silence,  does  your  great  heart  beat, 
Listening  in  the  darkness  for  the  coming  of  His  feet  ? 


FIVE 

"  But  a  week  is  so  long  !  "  he  said, 

With  a  toss  of  his  curly  head. 
*'One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven! — 
Seven  whole  days  !     Why,  in  six  you  know 
(You  said  it  yourself — you  told  me  so) 
The  great  GOD  up  in  heaven 
Made  all  the  earth  and  the  seas  and  skies. 
The  trees  and  the  birds  and  the  butterflies ! 
How  can  I  wait  for  my  seeds  to  grow  ! " 

' '  But  a  month  is  so  long  !  "  he  said, 
With  a  droop  of  his  boyish  head. 
"  Hear  me  count — one,  two,  three,  four — 
Four  whole  weeks,  and  three  days  more  ; 
Thirty-one  days,  and  each  will  creep 
As  the  shadows  crawl  over  yonder  steep. 
Thirty-one  nights,  and  I  shall  lie 
Watching  the  stars  climb  up  the  sky  ! 
How  can  I  wait  till  a  month  is  o'er  ?  " 

**  But  a  year  is  so  long  ! "  he  said, 
Uplifting  his  bright  young  head. 
"  All  the  seasons  must  come  and  go 
Over  the  hills  with  footsteps  slow — 
Autumn  and  winter,  summer  and  spring  ; 
Oh,  for  a  bridge  of  gold  to  fling 
Over  the  chasm  deep  and  wide, 


222  FIVE 

That  I  might  cross  to  the  other  side, 
Where  she  is  waiting — my  love,  my  bride  !" 

"  Ten  years  may  be  long,"  he  said, 

Slow  raising  his  stately  head, 
**  But  there's  much  to  win,  there  is  much  to  lose  ; 
A  man  must  labor,  a  man  must  choose. 
And  he  must  be  strong  to  wait ! 
The  years  may  be  long,  but  who  would  wear 
•     The  crown  of  honor,  must  do  and  dare  ! 
No  time  has  he  to  toy  with  fate 
Who  would  climb  to  manhood's  high  estate  ! " 

"  Ah  !  life  is  not  long!  "  he  said. 

Bowing  his  grand  white  head. 
*'  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven  ! 
Seven  times  ten  are  seventy. 
Seventy  years  !  as  swift  their  flight 
As  swallows  cleaving  the  morning  light, 
Or  golden  gleams  at  even. 
Life  is  short  as  a  summer  night — 
How  long,  O  God  !  is  eternity  ?  " 


UNSOLVED 

'Tis  the  old  unanswered  question  !     Since  the  stars  together 

sung, 
In  the  glory  of  the  morning,  when  the  earth  was  fair  and 

young, 

Man  hath  asked  it  o'er  and  over,  of  the  heavens  so  far  and 

high, 
And  from  out   the  mystic  silence  never  voice   hath   made 

reply  I 

Yet  again  to-night  I  ask  it,  though  I  know,  O  friend  of  mine, 
There  will  come,  to  all  my  asking,  never  answering  voice  of 
thine. 

.Ah !  how  many  times  the  grasses  have  grown  green  above 

thy  grave. 
And  how  many  times  above  it  have  we  heard  the  cold  winds 

rave! 

Thou  hast  solved  the  eternal  problem  that  the   ages   hold 

in  fee ; 
Thou  dost  know  what  we  but  dream  of;  where  we  marvel, 

thou  dost  see. 

Wliat  is  truth,  and  what  is  fable ;  what  the  prophets   saw 

who  trod 
In  their  rapt,  ecstatic  visions  up  the  holy  mount  of  God  ! 


224  UNSOLVED 

Not  of  these  high  themes  I  question — but,  O  friend,  I  fain 

would  know 
How  beyond  the  silent  river  all  the  long  years  come  and  go  ! 

Wliere  they  are,  our  well-beloved,  who  have  vanished  from 

our  sight. 
As  the  stars  fade  out  of  heaven  at  the  dawning  of  the  light ; 

How  they  live  and  how  they  love  there,  in  the  "  somewhere  " 

of  our  dreams  ; 
In  the  "  city  lying  four-square  "  by  the  everlasting  streams  ! 

Oh,  the  mystery  of  being  !     Which  is  better,  life  or  death  ? 
Thou  hast  tried  them  both,  O  comrade,  yet  thy  voice  ne'er 
ansvvereth  ! 

Hast  thou  grown  as  grow  the  angels  ?     Doth  thy  spirit  still 

aspire 
As  the  flame  that  soareth  upward,  mounting  higher  still,  and 

higher  ? 

In  the  flush  of  early  manhood  all   thy  earthly  days  were 

done  ; 
Short  thy  struggle  and  endeavor  ere  the  peace  of  heaven  was 

won. 

But  for  us  who  stayed  behind  thee — oh  !  our  hands  are  worn 

with  toil, 
And  upon  our  souls,  it  may  be,  are  the  stains   of  earthly 

moil. 

Hast   thou   kept    the    lofty  beauty   and    the   glory   of    thy 

youth  ? 
Dost  thou  see  .our  temples  whitening,  smiling  softly  in  thy 

ruth? 


UNSOLVED  225 

But  for  us  who  bear  the  burdens  that  you  dropped  so  long 

ago, 
All  the  cares  you  have  forgotten,  and  the  pains  you  missed, 

we  know. 

Yet — the  question  still  remaineth  !     Which  is  better,  death 

or  life  ? 
The  not  doing,  or  the  doing  ?    Joy  of  calm,  or  joy  of  strife  ? 

Which  is  better — to  be  saved  from  temptation  and  from  sin, 
Or  to  wrestle  with  the  dragon  and  the  glorious  fight  to  win  ? 

Ah !  we  know  not,  but  God  knoweth  !     All  resolves  itself  to 

this— 
That  He  gave  to  us  the  warfare,  and  to  thee  the  heavenly 

bhss. 

It  was  best  for  thee  to  go  hence  in  the  morning  of  the  day  ; 
Till  the  evening  shadows  lengthen  it  is  best  for  us  to  stay  I 


QUIETNESS 

I  WOULD  be  quiet,  Lord, 

Nor  tease,  nor  fret  ; 
Not  one  small  need  of  mine 

Wilt  Thou  forget. 

I  am  not  wise  to  know 

What  most  I  need  ; 
I  dare  not  cry  too  loud 

Lest  Thou  shouldst  heed  : 

Lest  Thou  at  length  shouldst  say, 

"Child,  have  thy  will; 
As  thou  hast  chosen,  lo  ! 

Thy  cup  I  fill !  " 

What  I  most  crave,  perchance 

Thou  wilt  withhold, 
As  we  from  hands  unmeet 

Keep  pearls,  or  gold  ; 

As  we,  when  childish  hands 

Would  play  with  fire, 
Withhold  the  burning  goal 

Of  their  desire. 

Yet  choose  Thou  for  me — Thou 

Who  knowest  best ; 
This  one  short  prayer  of  mine 

Holds  all  the  rest ! 


THE   DIFFERENCE 

Only  a  week  ago  and  thou  wert  here  ! 

I  touched  thy  hand,  I  saw  thy  dear,  dark  eyes, 
I  kissed  thy  tender  lips,  I  felt  thee  near, 

I  spake,  and  listened  to  thy  low  replies. 

To-day  what  leagues  between  us !     Hill  and  vale, 

The  rolling  prairies  and  the  mighty  seas ; 
Gray  forest  reaches  where  the  wild  winds  wail, 

And  mountain  crests  uplifted  to  the  breeze  I 

So  far  thou  art,  who  wert  of  late  so  near ! 

The  stars  we  watched  have  changed  not  in  the  skies ; 
Still  do  thy  hyacinth  bells  their  beauty  wear, 

Yet  half  a  continent  between  us  lies  ! 

But  swift  as  thought  along  the  *'  singing  wires" 
There  flies  a  message  like  a  bright-winged  bird — 

**  All's  well !     All's  well !  "  and  ne'er  from  woodland  choirs 
By  gladder  music  hath  the  air  been  stirred ! 


But  thou,  O  thou,  who  but  a  week  ago 

Passed  calmly  out  beyond  our  yearning  gaze, 

As  some  grand  ship,  all  solemnly  and  slow, 
Sails  out  of  sight  beyond  the  gathering  haze — 

Oh,  where  art  thou  ?     In  what  far  distant  realm, 
What  star  in  yon  resplendent  fields  of  light, 


228  THE    DIFFERENCE 

On  what  fair  isle  that  no  rude  seas  may  whelm, 
Dost  thou,  O  brother,  find  thy  home  to-night  ? 

Or  art  thou  near  us  ?     There  are  those  who  say 
That  but  a  breath  divides  our  world  from  thine  ; 

A  little  cloud  that  may  be  blown  away — 
A  gossamer  veil  than  spider's  web  more  fine. 

Dost  thou,  a  shadowy  presence,  linger  near 
The  happy  paths  that  thou  wert  wont  to  tread, 

Where  woods  were  still,  and  shining  brooks  ran  clear, 
And  waving  boughs  arched  greenly  overhead  ? 

Oh  !  be  thou  far  or  near,  it  is  the  same  ! 

From  thee  there  floats  no  message  thro'  the  air ; 
No  glad  '*  All's  well"  comes  to  us  in  thy  name 

That  we  the  joy  of  thy  new  life  may  share  ! 


MY   BIRTHDAY 

My  birthday  ! — "  How  many  years  ago  ? 

Twenty  or  thirty  ?  "     Don't  ask  me  I 
"  Forty  or  fifty  ?  "—How  can  I  tell  ? 

I  do  not  remember  my  birth,  you  see  ! 

It  is  hearsay  evidence — nothing  more  ! 

Once  on  a  time,  the  legends  say, 
A  girl  was  born — and  that  girl  was  I. 

How  can  I  vouch  for  the  truth,  I  pray  ? 

I  know  I  am  here,  but  when  I  came 
Let  some  one  wiser  than  I  am  tell ! 

Did  this  sweet  flower  you  plucked  for  me 
Know  when  its  bud  began  to  swell  ? 

How  old  am  I  ?  You  ought  to  know 
Without  any  telling  of  mine,  my  dear ! 

For  when  I  came  to  this  happy  earth 
Were  you  not  waiting  for  me  here  ? 

A  dark-eyed  boy  on  the  northern  hills, 
Chasing  the  hours  with  flying  feet, 

Did  you  not  know  your  wife  was  born, 
By  a  subtile  prescience,  faint  yet  sweet  ? 

Did  never  a  breath  from  the  south-land  come, 
With  sunshine  laden  and  rare  perfume. 

To  lift  your  hair  with  a  soft  caress. 

And  waken  your  heart  to  richer  bloom  ? 


230  MY  BIRTHDAY 

Not  one  ?     O  mystery  strange  as  life  ! 

To  think  that  we  who  are  now  so  dear 
Were  once  in  our  dreams  so  far  apart, 

Nor  cared  if  the  other  were  far  or  near  ! 

But — how  old  am  I  ?     You  must  tell. 

Just  as  old  as  I  seem  to  you  ! 
Nor  shall  I  a  day  older  be 

While  life  remaineth  and  love  is  true  ! 


A   RED   ROSE 

O  Rose,  my  red,  red  Rose, 

Where  has  thy  beauty  fled  ? 
Low  in  the  west  is  a  sea  of  fire, 
But  the  great  white  moon  soars  high  and  higher, 

As  my  garden  walks  I  tread. 

Thy  white  rose-sisters  gleam 

Like  stars  in  the  darkening  sky  ; 
They  bend  their  brows  with  a  sudden  thrill 
To  the  kiss  of  the  night-dews  soft  and  still, 

When  the  warm  south  wind  floats  by. 

And  the  stately  lilies  stand 

Fair  in  the  silvery  light. 
Like  saintly  vestals,  pale  in  prayer ; 
Their  pure  breath  sanctifies  the  air, 

As  its  fragrance  fills  the  night. 

But  O,  my  red,  red  Rose  ! 

My  Rose  with  the  crimson  lips  ! 
So  bright  thou  wert  in  the  sunny  morn, 
Yet  now  thou  art  hiding  all  forlorn, 

And  thy  soul  is  in  drear  eclipse  ! 

Dost  thou  mourn  thy  lover  dead — 

Thy  lover,  the  lordly  Sun  ? 
Didst  thou  see  him  sink  in  the  glowing  west 
With  pomp  of  banners  above  his  rest  ? 
sweet  one  ! 


232  A   RED   ROSE 

He  shall  rise  with  his  eye  of  fire — 

And  thy  passionate  heart  shall  beat, 
And  thy  radiant  blushes  burn  again, 
With  the  joy  of  rapture  after  pain 
At  the  coming  of  his  feet ! 


TWENTY-ONE 

Grown  to  man's  stature  !     O  my  little  child  ! 

My  bird  that  sought  the  skies  so  long  ago  ! 
My  fair,  sweet  blossom,  pure  and  undefiled, 

How  have  the  years  flown  since  we  laid  thee  low  I 

What  have  they  been  to  thee  ?     If  thou  wert  here 
Standing  beside  thy  brothers,  tall  and  fair, 

With  bearded  lip,  and  dark  eyes  shining  clear, 
And  glints  of  summer  sunshine  in  thy  hair, 

I  should  look  up  into  thy  face  and  say, 
Wavering,  perhaps,  between  a  tear  and  smile, 

**  O  my  sweet  son,  thou  art  a  man  to-day!  " — 
And  thou  wouldst  stoop  to  kiss  my  lips  the  while. 

But — up  in  heaven — how  is  it  with  thee,  dear  ? 

Art  thou  a  man — to  man's  full  stature  grown  ? 
Dost  thou  count  time  as  we  do,  year  by  year  ? 

And  what  of  all  earth's  changes  hast  thou  known  ? 

Thou  hadst  not  learned  to  love  me.     Didst  thou  take 
Any  small  germ  of  love  to  heaven  with  thee, 

That  thou  hast  watched  and  nurtured  for  my  sake, 
Waiting  till  I  its  perfect  flower  may  see  ? 

What  is  it  to  have  lived  in  heaven  always? 

To  have  no  memory  of  pain  or  sin  ? 
Ne'er  to  have  known  in  all  the  calm,  bright  days, 

The  jar  and  fret  of  earth's  discordant  din  ? 


234  TWENTY-ONE 

Thy  brothers — they  are  mortal — they  must  tread 
Ofttimes  in  rough,  hard  ways,  with  bleeding  feet 

Must  fight  with  dragons,  must  bewail  their  dead, 
And  fierce  Apollyon  face  to  face  must  meet. 

I,  who  would  give  my  very  life  for  theirs, 

I  cannot  save  them  from  earth's  pain  or  loss  ; 

I  cannot  shield  them  from  its  griefs  or  cares  ; 
Each  human  heart  must  bear  aloiie  its  cross  ! 

Was  God,  then,  kinder  unto  thee  than  them, 
O  thou  whose  little  life  was  but  a  span  ? — 

Ah,  think  it  not !     In  all  his  diadem 

No  star  shines  brighter  than  the  kingly  man. 

Who  nobly  earns  whatever  crown  he  wears. 
Who  grandly  conquers,  or  as  grandly  dies  ; 

And  the  white  banner  of  his  manhood  bears. 
Through  all  the  years  uplifted  to  the  skies  ! 

What  lofty  paeans  shall  the  victor  greet ! 

What  crown  resplendent  for  his  brow  be  fit ! 
O  child,  if  earthly  life  be  bitter-sweet, 

Hast  thou  not  something  missed  in  missing  it  ? 


SINGING   IN   THE   DARK 

O  YE  little  warblers,  flying  fast  and  far 

From  the  balmy  south-land,  where  the  roses  are, 

Robins  red  and  blue-birds,  do  ye  faint  to  see 

How  the  chill  snow-blossoms  whiten  shrub  and  tree  ? 

Through  the  snowy  valley  cold  the  north  winds  sweep  ; 
Mother  earth,  half- wakened,  turns  again  to  sleep  ; 
Silent  lies  the  river  in  an  icy  trance, 
And  the  frozen  meadows  wait  the  sun's  hot  glance. 

Dull  and  gray  the  skies  are.     Soft  and  blue  were  those 
That  so  late  above  you  bent  at  daylight's  close  ; 
Do  ye  grieve,  remembering  all  the  balm  and  bloom, 
All  the  warmth  and  sweetness  of  the  starlit  gloom  ? 

Do  ye  sadly  wonder  what  strange  impulse  drew 
All  your  flashing  pinions  the  far  ether  through  ? 
Do  ye  count  it  madness  that  so  wide  ye  strayed 
From  the  starry  jasmine  and  the  orange  shade  ? 

Yet  this  morn  I  heard  ye  singing  in  the  dark. 

Songs  of  such  rare  sweetness  that  the  world  might  hark  ! 

O  ye  blessed  minstrels,  silent  not  for  pain, 

God  is  in  the  heavens,  and  your  sun  shall  shine  again  ! 


THOMAS   MOORE 

May  28,  1779-1879 

Hush  !     O  be  ye  silent,  all  ye  birds  of  May  ! 
Cease  the  high,  clear  trilling  of  your  roundelay  ! 
Be  the  merry  minstrels  mute  in  vale,  on  hill, 
And  in  every  tree-top  let  the  song  be  still ! 

O  ye  winds,  breathe  softly  !     Let  your  voices  die 
In  a  low,  faint  whisper,  sweet  as  love's  first  sigh  ; 
O  ye  zephyrs,  blowing  over  beds  of  flowers. 
Be  ye  still  as  dews  are  in  the  starry  hours  ! 

O  ye  laughing  waters,  leaping  here  and  there. 
Filling  with  sweet  clamor  all  the  summer  air. 
Can  ye  not  be  quiet?     Hush,  ye  mountain  streams. 
Dancing  to  glad  music  from  the  world  of  dreams  ! 

And  thou,  mighty  ocean,  beating  on  the  shore, 
Bid  thy  angry  billows  stay  their  thunderous  roar  ! 
O  ye  waves,  lapse  softly,  in  such  slumberous  calm 
As  ye  know  when  circling  isles  of  crested  palm  ! 

Bells  in  tower  and  steeple,  be  ye  mute  to-day 
As  the  bell-flowers  rocking  in  the  winds  of  May  ! 
Cease  awhile,  ye  minstrels,  though  your  notes  be  clear 
As  the  strains  that  soar  in  heaven's  high  atmosphere  ! 

Earth,  bid  all  thy  children  hearken — for  a  voice. 
Sweeter  than  a  seraph's,  bids  their  hearts  rejoice  ; 


THOMAS   MOORE  237 

Floating  down  the  silence  of  a  hundred  years, 
Lo  !  its  deathless  music  thrills  our  listening  ears  ! 

'Tis  the  voice  our  fathers  loved  so  long  ago, 
Songs  to  which  they  listened  warbling  clear  and  low ; 
Hark,  "  Ye  Disconsolate  !  "  while  the  minstrel  pure 
Sings — "  Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  heaven  cannot  cure  I 

Sings  of  love's  wild  rapture  triumphing  o'er  pain, 
Glorying  in  giving,  counting  loss  but  gain  ; 
Sings  the  warrior's  passion  and  the  patriot's  pride. 
And  the  brave,  unshrinking,  who  for  glory  died — 

Sings  of  Erin  smiling  through  a  mist  of  tears  ; 
Of  her  patient  waiting  all  the  weary  years ; 
Sings  the  pain  of  parting,  and  the  joy  divine 
When  the  bliss  of  meeting  stirs  the  heart  like  wine  ; 

Sings  of  memories  waking  in  "  the  stilly  night ;  " 
Of  the  **  young  dreams  "  fading  in  the  morning  light ; 
Of  the  *  *  rose  of  summer  "  perishing  too  soon  ; 
Of  the  early  splendors  waning  ere  the  noon ! 

O  thou  tender  singer !     All  the  air  to-day 
Trembles  with  the  burden  of  thy  "  farewell "  lay  ; 
Crowns  and  thrones  may  crumble,  into  darkness  hurled, 
Yet  is  song  immortal ;  song  shall  rule  the  world  ! 


A   LAST   WORD 

Where  will  it  go  to  reach  thine  ears 

My  father,  thou  dost  wear 
Somewhere  beyond  the  stars  to-night 

Thy  crown  of  silver  hair. 

Somewhere  thou  art.     No  wandering  ghost 
In  vast,  vague  realms  of  space — 

But  thine  own  self,  majestic,  fair, 
In  thine  appointed  place. 

By  one  long  look  thy  soul  replied 

When  last  I  cried  to  thee. 
As  thou  wert  drifting  out  of  sight 

Upon  the  unknown  sea  ; 

And  well  I  know  that  thou  wouldst  turn 

Even  from  joys  divine. 
If  but  thy  listening  ears  could  hear 

One  faltering  word  of  mine. 

Yet,  knowing  this,  I  cannot  lay 

My  book  upon  thy  knee. 
Saying,  "  O  father,  once  again 

I  bring  my  sheaves  to  thee  !  " 


SONNETS 


THE  SONNET 

I.  TO   A   CRITIC 

"  It  is  but  cunning  artifice,"  you  say  ? 
**  To  it  no  throb  of  nature  answereth  ? 

It  hath  no  living  pulse,  no  vital  breath, 
This  puppet,  fashioned  in  an  elder  day, 
Through  whose  strait  lips  no  heart  can  cry  or  pray?  " 
O  deaf  and  blind  of  soul,  these  words  that  saith  ! 
If  that  thine  ear  is  dull,  what  hindereth 
That  quicker  ears  should  hear  the  bugles  play 
And  the  trump  call  to  battle  ?     Since  the  stars 
First  sang  together,  and  the  exulting  skies 

Thrilled  to  their  music,  earth  hath  never  heard, 
Above  the  tumult  of  her  worldly  jars, 

Or  loftier  songs  or  prayers  than  those  that  rise 
Where  the  high  sonnet  soareth  like  a  bird  I 

II.  TO   A   POET 

Thou  who  wouldst  wake  the  sonnet's  silver  lyre, 

Make  thine  hands  clean !     Then,  as  on  eagles'  wings, 
Above  the  soiling  touch  of  sordid  things. 

Bid  thy  soul  soar  till,  mounting  high  and  higher, 

It  feels  the  glow  of  pure  celestial  fire. 
Bathes  in  clear  light,  and  hears  the  song  that  rings 
Through  heaven's  high  arches  when  some  angel  brings 

Gifts  to  the  Throne,  on  wings  that  never  tire ! 


242  THE  SONNET 

It  hath  a  subtile  music,  strangely  sweet, 
Yet  all  unmeet  for  dance  or  roundelay, 
Or  idle  love  that  fadeth  like  a  flower. 
It  is  the  voice  of  hearts  that  strongly  beat. 
The  cry  of  souls  that  grandly  love  and  pray, 
The  trumpet-peal  that  thrills  the  battle-hour  ! 


AT   REST 

"  '  When  Greek  meets  Greek,'  you  know,"  he  sadly  said, 

"  *  Then  comes  the  tug  of  war.'     I  deem  him  great, 

And  own  him  wise  and  good.    Yet  adverse  fate 
Hath  made  us  enemies.     If  I  were  dead. 
And  buried  deep  with  grave-mould  on  my  head, 

I  still  believe  that,  came  he  soon  or  late 

Where  I  was  lying  in  my  last  estate, 
My  dust  would  quiver  at  his  lightest  tread  ! " 

The  slow  years  passed  ;  and  one  fair  summer  night, 
When  the  low  sun  was  reddening  all  the  west, 

I  saw  two  grave-mounds,  where  the  grass  was  bright. 
Lying  so  near  each  other  that  the  crest 

Of  the  same  wave  touched  each  with  amber  light. 
But,  ah,  dear  hearts !  how  undisturbed  their  rest ! 


TOO    WIDE! 

O  MIGHTY  Earth,  thou  art  too  wide,  to  wide  ! 
Too  vast  thy  continents,  too  broad  thy  seas, 
Too  far  thy  prairies  stretching  fair  as  these 

Now  reddening  in  the  sunset's  crimson  tide  ! 

Sundered  by  thee  how  have  thy  children  cried 
Each  to  some  other,  until  every  breeze 
Has  borne  a  burden  of  fond  messages 

That  all  unheard  in  thy  lone  wastes  have  died  ! 

Draw  closer,  O  dear  Earth,  thy  hills  that  soar 
Up  to  blue  skies  such  countless  leagues  apart ! 
Bid  thou  thine  awful  spaces  smaller  grow  ! 

Compass  thy  billows  with  a  narrower  shore, 

That  yearning  lips  may  meet,  heart  beat  to  heart, 
And  parted  souls  forget  their  lonely  woe ! 


MERCEDES 

(June  27,  1878) 

O  FAIR  young  queen,  who  liest  dead  to-day 
In  thy  proud  palace  o'er  the  moaning  sea, 
With  still,  white  hands  that  never  more  may  be 

Lifted  to  pluck  life's  roses  bright  with  May — 

Little  is  it  to  you  that,  far  away, 
Where  skies  you  knew  not  bend  above  the  free, 
Hearts  touched  with  tender  pity  turn  to  thee. 

And  for  thy  sake  a  shadow  dims  the  day  ! 

But  youth  and  love  and  womanhood  are  one. 
Though  across  sundering  seas  their  signals  fly ; 

Young  Love's  pure  kiss,  the  joy  but  just  begun. 
The  hope  of  motherhood,  thy  people's  cry — 
O  thou  fair  child  !  was  it  not  hard  to  die 

And  leave  so  much  beneath  the  summer  sun  ? 


GRASS-GROWN 

Grass  grows  at  last  above  all  graves,  you  say  ? 

Why,  therein  lies  the  sharpest  sting  of  all ! 

To  think  that  stars  will  rise  and  dews  will  fall, 
Hills  flush  with  purple  splendor,  soft  winds  play 
Where  roses  bloom  and  violets  of  May, 

Robin  to  robin  in  the  tree -tops  call. 

And  all  sweet  sights  and  sounds  the  senses  thrall, 
Just  as  they  did  before  that  strange,  sad  day  ! 

Does  that  bring  comfort  ?     Are  we  glad  to  know 
That  our  eyes  sometime  must  forget  to  weep. 

Even  as  June  forgets  December's  snow  ? 
Over  the  graves  where  our  beloved  sleep. 

We  charge  thee.  Time,  let  not  the  green  grass  grow, 
Nor  your  relentless  mosses  coldly  creep  ! 


TO   ZULMA 


Sometimes  my  heart  grows  faint  with  longing,  dear- 
Longing  to  see  thy  face,  to  touch  thy  hand. 
But  mountains  rise  between  us  ;  leagues  of  land 

Stretch  on  and  on  where  mighty  lakes  lie  clear 

In  the  far  spaces,  and  great  forests  rear 
Their  sombre  crowns  on  many  a  lonely  strand  ! 
Yet,  O  my  fair  child,  canst  thou  understand. 

Thou  whose  dear  place  was  once  beside  me  here, 

How  yet  I  dare  not  pray  that  thou  and  I 
Again  may  dwell  together  as  of  old  ? 
There  is  a  gate  between  us,  locked  and  barred, 

Over  which  we  may  not  climb  ;  and  standing  nigh 
Is  the  white  angel  Sorrow,  who  doth  hold 
The  only  key  that  may  unlock  its  ward  I 

II. 

Yet  think  not  I  would  have  it  otherwise  ! 
Our  God,  who  knoweth  women's  hearts,  knows  best- 
And  every  little  bird  must  build  its  nest 

From  whence  it  soareth,  singing,  to  the  skies. 

What  though  the  one  that  thou  hast  builded  lies 
Where  sinks  the  sun  to  its  enchanted  rest. 
If,  on  each  breeze  that  bloweth  east  or  west. 

To  thee,  on  swiftest  wing,  my  spirit  flies? 

We  are  not  far  apart,  and  ne'er  shall  be ! 


248  TO   ZiJLMA 

For  Love,  like  God,  knoweth  not  time,  nor  space, 
And  it  is  freer  than  the  viewless  air  j 
And  well  I  know,  beloved,  that  if  we 

Trod  different  planets  in  yon  starry  space 

We  should  reach  out,  and  find  each  other  there  I 


SLEEP 

Who  calls  thee  "gentle  Sleep?"  O  !  rare  coquette, 
Who  comest  crowned  with  poppies,  thou  shouldst  wear 
Nettles  instead,  or  thistles,  in  thine  hair  ; 

For  thou  'rt  the  veriest  elf  that  ever  yet 

Made  weary  mortals  sigh  and  toss  and  fret  I 
Thou  dost  float  softly  through  the  drowsy  air 
Hovering  as  if  to  kiss  my  lips  and  share 

My  restless  pillow  ;  but  ere  I  can  set 

My  arms  to  clasp  thee,  without  sign  or  speech, 
Save  one  swift,  mocking  smile  thou  'rt  out  of  reach ! 

Yet,  sometime,  thou,  or  one  as  like  to  thee 
As  sister  is  to  sister,  shalt  draw  near 
With  such  soft  lullabies  for  my  dull  ear, 

That  neither  life  nor  love  shall  waken  me  ! 


IN   KING'S   CHAPEL 
(Boston,  November  3,  1878) 

O,  Lord  of  Hosts,  how  sacred  is  this  place, 
Where,  though  the  tides  of  time  resistless  flow, 
And  the  long  generations  come  and  go, 

Thou  still  abidest !     In  this  holy  space 

The  very  airs  are  hushed  before  Thy  face, 
And  wait  in  reverent  calm,  as  voices  low 
Blend  in  the  prayers  and  chantings,  soft  and  slow, 

And  the  gray  twilight  stealeth  on  apace. 

Hark !     There  are  whispers  from  the  time-worn  walls 
The  mighty  dead  glide  up  the  shadowy  aisle ; 
And  there  are  rustlings  as  of  angels'  wings 

While  from  the  choir  the  heavenly  music  falls  ! 
Well  may  we  bow  in  grateful  praise  the  while — 
In  the  King's  Chapel  reigns  the  King  of  Kings  I 


TO-DAY 

What  dost  thou  bring  to  me,  O  fair  To-day, 
That  comest  o'er  the  mountains  with  swift  feet  ? 
All  the  young  birds  make  haste  thy  steps  to  greet, 

And  all  the  dewy  roses  of  the  May 

Turn  red  and  white  with  joy.     The  breezes  play 
On  their  soft  harps  a  welcome  low  and  sweet ; 
All  nature  hails  thee,  glad  thy  face  to  meet. 

And  owns  thy  presence  in  a  brighter  ray. 
But  my  poor  soul  distrusts  thee  !     One  as  fair 

As  thou  art,  O  To-day,  drew  near  to  me. 
Serene  and  smiling,  yet  she  bade  me  wear 
The  sudden  sackcloth  of  a  great  despair  ! 
O,  pitiless  !  that  through  the  wandering  air 

Sent  no  kind  warning  of  the  ill  to  be  ! 


F.    A.    F. 

When  upon  eyes  long  dim,  to  whom  the  Ught 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  unfamiliar  grown — 
Eyes  that  so  long  in  deepening  shades  had  known 

The  mystic  visions  of  the  inner  sight — 

Day  broke,  at  last,  after  the  weary  night, 
I  cannot  think  its  sudden  glory  shone 

In  pitiless  brightness,  dazzling,  clear,  and  white — 
A  piercing  splendor  on  the  darkness  thrown  ! 

Softly  as  moonlight  steals  upon  the  skies, 
Slowly  as  shadows  creep  at  set  of  sun, 
Gently  as  falls  a  mother's  tender  kiss, 

So  softly  stole  the  light  upon  his  eyes  ; 
So  slowly  passed  the  shadows  one  by  one  ; 
So  gently  dawned  the  morning  of  his  bliss ! 


DAY   AND   NIGHT 


When  I  awake  at  morn,  refreshed,  renewed, 
Glad  with  the  gladness  of  the  jocund  day 
And  jubilant  with  all  the  birds  of  May, 

My  spirit  shrinks  from  Night's  dull  quietude. 

With  it  and  Sleep  I  have  a  deadly  feud. 
I  hear  the  young  winds  in  the  maples  play. 
The  river  singing  on  its  happy  way, 

The  swallows  twittering  to  their  callow  brood. 

The  fresh,  fair  earth  is  full  of  joyous  life  ; 
The  tree-tops  toss  in  billowy  unrest ; 
The  very  mountain  shadows  are  astir ! 

With  eager  heart  I  thrill  to  join  the  strife ; 
Doing,  not  dreaming,  to  my  soul  seems  best, 
And  I  am  lordly  Day's  true  worshipper  ! 

II. 

But  when  with  Day's  long  weariness  oppressed, 
With  folded  hands  I  watch  the  sun  go  down, 
Lighting  far  torches  in  the  steepled  town, 

And  kindling  all  the  glowing,  reddening  west ; 

When  every  sleepy  bird  has  sought  its  nest ; 

When  the  long  shadows  from  the  hills  are  thrown, 
And  Night's  soft  airs  about  the  world  are  blown, 

Thou  heart  of  mine,  how  sweet  it  is  to  rest ! 

O,  Israfil !     Thou  of  the  tuneful  voice  ! 


254  DAY   AND   NIGHT 

It  will  be  nightfall  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 
Summoning  me  to  slumber  soft  and  low  ! 
Day  will  be  done.     Then  will  I  not  rejoice 
That  all  my  tasks  are  o'er  and  rest  is  near, 
And,  like  a  tired  child,  be  glad  to  go  ? 


THY   NAME 

What  matters  it  what  men  may  call  Thee,  Thou, 
The  Eternal  One,  who  reign'st  supreme,  alone. 
The  boundless  universe  Thy  mighty  throne  ? 

When  souls  before  Thee  reverently  bow. 

Oh,  carest  Thou  what  name  the  lips  breathe  low 
Jove,  or  Osiris,  or  the  God  Unknown 
To  whom  the  Athenians  raised  their  altar  stone. 

Or  Thine,  O  Holiest,  unto  whom  we  vow  ? 

The  sun  hath  many  names  in  many  lands  ; 
Yet  upon  all  its  golden  splendors  fall, 
Where'er,  from  age  to  age  entreating  still, 

The  adoring  earth  uplifts  its  waiting  hands. 
Love  knows  all  names  and  answereth  to  all — 
Who  worships  Thee  may  call  Thee  what  he  will ! 


RESURGAMUS 

What  though  we  sleep  a  thousand  leagues  apart, 

I  by  my  mountains,  you  beside  your  sea  ? 

What  though  our  moss-grown  graves  divided  be 
By  the  wide  reaches  of  a  continent's  heart  ? 
When  from  long  slumber  we  at  length  shall  start 

Wakened  to  stronger  life,  exultant,  free. 

This  mortal  clothed  in  immortality. 
Where  shall  I  find  my  heaven  save  where  thou  art  ? 
Straight  as  a  bird  that  hasteth  to  its  nest. 

Glad  as  an  eagle  soaring  to  the  light, 

Swift  as  the  thought  that  bears  my  soul  to  thine 
When  yon  lone  star  hangs  trembling  in  the  west, 

So  straight,  so  glad,  so  swift  to  thee  my  flight, 
Led  on  through  farthest  space  by  love  divine  ! 


AT   THE   TOMB 

O  Soul  !  rememberest  thou  how  Mary  went 

In  the  gray  dawn  to  weep  beside  the  tomb 

Where  one  she  loved  lay  buried  ?    Through  the  gloom, 
Pallid  with  pain,  and  with  long  anguish  spent, 
Still  pressed  she  on  with  solemn,  high  intent. 

Bearing  her  costly  gifts  of  rare  perfume 

And  spices  odorous  with  eastern  bloom. 
Unto  the  Master's  sepulchre  !     But  rent 

Was  the  great  stone  from  its  low  door  away  ; 
And  when  she  stooped  to  peer  with  startled  eyes 

Into  the  dark  where  slept  the  pallid  clay, 
Lo,  it  was  gone  !     And  there  in  heavenly  guise, 

So  grandly  calm,  so  fair  in  morn's  first  ray. 
She  found  an  angel  from  the  upper  skies  ! 


THREE    DAYS 


What  shall  I  bring  to  lay  upon  thy  bier 

O  Yesterday  !  thou  day  forever  dead  ? 

With  what  strange  garlands  shall  I  crown  thy  head, 
Thou  silent  One?     For  rose  and  rue  are  near 
Which  thou  thyself  didst  bring  me  ;  heart's-ease  clear 

And  dark  in  purple  opulence  that  shed 

Rare  odors  round  ;  wormwood,  and  herbs  that  fed 
My  soul  with  bitterness — they  all  are  here  ! 
When  to  the  banquet  I  was  called  by  thee 

Thou  gavest  me  rags  and  royal  robes  to  wear ; 
Honey  and  aloes  mingled  in  the  cup 
Of  costly  wine  that  thou  didst  pour  for  me  ; 

Thy  throne,  thy  footstool,  thou  didst  bid  me  share  ; 
On  crusts  and  heavenly  manna  bade  me  sup  ! 


Thou  art  no  dreamer,  O  thou  stern  To-day  ! 

The  dead  past  had  its  dreams  ;  the  real  is  thine. 

An  armored  knight,  in  panoply  divine, 
It  is  not  thine  to  loiter  by  the  way, 
Though  all  the  meads  with  summer  flowers  be  gay. 

Though  birds  sing  for  thee,  and  though  fair  stars  shine, 

And  every  god  pours  for  thee  life's  best  wine  ! 
Nor  friend  nor  foe  hath  strength  to  bid  thee  stay. 


THREE   DAYS  2  59 

Gleaming  beneath  thy  brows  with  smouldering  fire 
Thine  eyes  look  out  upon  the  eternal  hills 
As  forth  thou  ridest  with  thy  spear  in  rest. 
From  the  far  heights  a  voice  cries,  "  Come  up  higher  !  " 
And  in  swift  answer  all  thy  being  thrills, 

When  lo  !  'tis  night — thy  sun  is  in  the  west  1 


III. 

But  thou,  To-morrow  !  never  yet  was  born 
In  earth's  dull  atmosphere  a  thing  so  fair — 
Never  yet  tripped,  with  footsteps  light  as  air, 

So  glad  a  vision  o'er  the  hills  of  morn  ! 

Fresh  as  the  radiant  dawning — all  unworn 
By  lightest  touch  of  sorrow,  or  of  care. 
Thou  dost  the  glory  of  the  morning  share 

By  snowy  wings  of  hope  and  faith  upborne  ! 

O  fair  To-morrow  !  what  our  souls  have  missed 
Art  thou  not  keeping  for  us,  somewhere,  still  ? 
The  buds  of  promise  that  have  never  blown — 

The  tender  lips  that  we  have  never  kissed — 

The  song  whose  high,  sweet  strain  eludes  our  skill- 
The  one  white  pearl  that  life  hath  never  known  ! 


DARKNESS 

Come,  blessed  Darkness,  come,  and  bring  thy  balm 
For  eyes  grown  weary  of  the  garish  Day  ! 
Come  with  thy  soft,  slow  steps,  thy  garments  gray, 

Thy  veiling  shadows,  bearing  in  thy  palm 

The  poppy-seeds  of  slumber,  deep  and  calm  ! 
Come  with  thy  patient  stars,  whose  far-off  ray 
Steals  the  hot  fever  of  the  soul  away,  , 

Thy  stillness,  sweeter  than  a  chanted  psalm  ! 

O  blessed  Darkness,  Day  indeed  is  fair. 

And  Light  is  dear  when  summer  days  are  long, 

And  one  by  one  the  harvesters  go  by  ; 

But  so  is  rest  sweet,  and  surcease  from  care, 
And  folded  palms,  and  hush  of  evensong, 

And  all  the  unfathomed  silence  of  the  sky ! 


SILENCE 

O  GOLDEN  Silence,  bid  our  souls  be  still, 
And  on  the  foolish  fretting  of  our  care 
Lay  thy  soft  touch  of  healing  unaware  ! 

Once,  for  a  half  hour,  even  in  heaven  the  thrill 

Of  the  clear  harpings  ceased  the  air  to  fill 
With  soft  reverberations.     Thou  wert  there. 
And  all  the  shining  seraphs  ov^^ned  thee  fair — 

A  white,  hushed  Presence  on  the  heavenly  hill. 

Bring  us  thy  peace,  O  Silence  !     Song  is  sweet ; 
Tuneful  is  baby  laughter,  and  the  low 
Murmur  of  dying  winds  among  the  trees, 

And  dear  the  music  of  Love's  hurrying  feet ; 
Yet  only  he  who  knows  thee  learns  to  know 
The  secret  soul  of  loftiest  harmonies. 


SANCTIFIED 

A  HOLY  presence  hath  been  here,  and,  lo, 
The  place  is  sanctified  !     From  off  thy  feet 
Put  thou  thy  shoes,  my  soul !     The  air  is  sweet 
Even  yet  with  heavenly  odors,  and  I  know 
If  thou  dost  listen,  thou  wilt  hear  the  flow 
Of  most  celestial  music,  and  the  beat 
Of  rhythmic  pinions.     It  is  then  most  meet 
That  thou  shouldst  watch  and  wait,  lest  to  and  fro 
Should  pass  the  heavenly  messengers  and  thou, 
Haply,  shouldst  miss  their  coming.     O  my  soul, 
Count  this  fair  room  a  temple  from  whose  shrine, 
Led  by  an  angel,  though  we  know  not  how. 
Thy  friend  and  lover  dropped  the  cup  of  dole. 
And  passed  from  thy  love  to  the  Love  Divine  I 


A   MESSAGE 

I  BID  thee  sing  the  song  I  would  have  sung — 

The  high,  pure  strain  that  since  my  soul  was  born, 
Clearer  and  sweeter  than  the  bells  of  morn, 

Through  all  its  chambers  hath  divinely  rung  ! 

In  thee  let  my  whole  being  find  a  tongue  ; 

Pluck  thou  the  rose  where  I  have  plucked  the  thorn, 
Nor  leave  the  perfect  flower  to  fade  forlorn. 

Youth  holds  the  world  in  fee— and  thou  art  young  I 
O  my  glad  singer  of  the  tuneful  voice, 

Where  my  wing  falters  be  thou  strong  to  soar, 
Striking  the  deep,  clear  notes  beyond  my  reach, 
Beyond  the  plummet  of  a  woman's  speech. 

Sing  my  songs  for  me,  and  from  some  far  shore 
My  happy  soul  shall  hear  thee  and  rejoice  I 


WHEN    LESSER   LOVES 

When  lesser  loves  by  the  relentless  flow 

Of  mighty  currents  from  my  arms  were  torn 
And  swept,  unheeding,  to  that  silent  bourn 

Whose  mystic  shades  no  living  man  may  know, 

By  night,  by  day,  I  sang  my  songs  ;  and  so. 

Out  of  the  sackcloth  that  my  soul  had  worn, 
Weaving  my  purple,  I  forgot  to  mourn. 

Pouring  my  grief  out  in  melodious  woe  ! 

Now  am  I  dumb,  dear  heart.  My  lips  are  mute. 
Yet  if  from  yonder  blue  height  thou  dost  lean 
Earthward,  remembering  love's  last  wordless  kiss, 

Know  thou  no  trembling  thrills  of  harp  or  lute, 
Dying  soft  wails  and  tender  songs  between, 
Were  half  so  voiceful  as  this  silence  is  ! 


GEORGE    ELIOT 

Pass  on,  O  world,  and  leave  her  to  her  rest ! 

Brothers,  be  silent  while  the  drifting  snow 

Weaves  its  white  pall  above  her,  lying  low 
With  empty  hands  crossed  idly  on  her  breast. 
O  sisters,  let  her  sleep  !  while  unrepressed 

Your  pitying  tears  fall  silently  and  slow, 

Washing  her  spotless,  in  their  crystal  flow, 
Of  that  one  stain  whereof  she  stands  confessed. 
Are  we  so  pure  that  we  should  scoff  at  her, 

Or  mock  her  now,  low  lying  in  her  tomb  ? 

God  knows  how  sharp  the  thorn  her  roses  wore. 
Even  what  time  their  petals  were  astir 

In  the  warm  sunshine,  odorous  with  perfume. 

Leave  her  to  Him  who  weighed  the  cross  she  bore  1 


KNOWING 

One  summer  day,  to  a  young  child  I  said, 

"  Write  to  thy  mother,  boy."     With  earnest  face, 
And  laboring  fingers  all  unused  to  trace 

The  mystic  characters,  he  bent  his  head 

(That  should  have  danced  amid  the  flowers  instead) 
Over  the  blurred  page  for  a  half-hour's  space  ; 
Then  with  a  sigh  that  burdened  all  the  place 

Cried,  '^  Mamma  knows  ! "  and  out  to  sunshine  sped. 

O  soul  of  mine,  when  tasks  are  hard  and  long, 
And  life  so  crowds  thee  with  its  stress  and  strain 
That  thou,  half  fainting,  art  too  tired  to  pray, 

Drink  thou  this  wine  of  blessing  and  be  strong  ! 

God  knows  !     What  though  the  lips  be  dumb  with  pain. 
Or  the  pen  drops  ?     He  knows  what  thou  wouldst  say. 


A    THOUGHT 

(suggested    by    reading    "  A   MIRACLE    IN    STONE ") 

Oh,  thou  supreme,  all-wise,  eternal  One, 

Thou  who  art  Lord  of  lords,  and  King  of  kings, 
In  whose  high  praise  each  flaming  seraph  sings  ; 

Thou  at  whose  word  the  morning  stars  begun 

With  song  and  shout  their  glorious  course  to  run  ; 
Thou  unto  whom  the  great  sea  lifts  its  wings, 
And  earth,  with  laden  hands,  rich  tribute  brings 

From  every  shore  that  smiles  beneath  the  sun  ; 
Thou  who  didst  write  thy  name  upon  the  hills 

And  bid  the  mountains  speak  for  thee  alway, 
Yet  gave  sweet  messages  to  murmuring  rills, 

And  to  each  flower  that  breathes  its  life  away — 
Oh !  dost  thou  smile,  or  frown,  when  man's  conceit 
Seeks  in  this  pile  of  stone  the  impress  of  thy  feet  ? 


TO-MORROW 


Mysterious  One,  inscrutable,  unknown, 
A  silent  Presence,  with  averted  face 
Whose  lineaments  no  mortal  eye  can  trace, 

And  robes  of  trailing  darkness  round  thee  thrown, 

Over  the  midnight  hills  thou  comest  alone  ! 

What  thou  dost  bring  to  me  from  farthest  space. 
What  blessing  or  what  ban,  what  dole,  what  grace, 

I  may  hot  know.     Thy  secrets  are  thine  own  ! 

Yet,  asking  not  for  lightest  word  or  sign 
To  tell  me  what  the  hidden  fate  may  be. 

Without  a  murmur,  or  a  quickened  breath. 

Unshrinkingly  I  place  my  hand  in  thine. 
And  through  the  shadowy  depths  go  forth  with  thee 

To  meet,  as  thou  shalt  lead,  or  life,  or  death ! 

II. 

Then,  if  I  fear  not  thee,  thou  veiled  One 
Whose  face  I  know  not,  why  fear  I  to  meet 
Beyond  the  everlasting  hills  her  feet 

Who  cometh  when  all  Yesterdays  are  done  ? 

Shall  I,  who  have  proved  thee  good,  thy  sister  shun  ? 
O  thou  To-morrow,  who  dost  feel  the  beat 
Of  life's  long,  rhythmic  pulses,  strong  and  sweet. 

In  the  far  realm  that  hath  no  need  of  sun — 


TO-MORROW  269 

Thou  who  art  fairer  than  the  fair  To-day 
That  I  have  held  so  dear,  and  loved  so  much — 

When,  slow  descending  from  the  hills  divine, 

Thou  summonest  me  to  join  thee  on  thy  way. 
Let  me  not  shrink  nor  tremble  at  thy  touch, 

Nor  fear  to  break  thy  bread  and  drink  thy  wine ! 


**0   EARTH!    ART   THOU   NOT   WEARY?" 

O  Earth  !  art  thou  not  weary  of  thy  graves  ? 
Dear,  patient  mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast 
How  are  they  heaped  from  farthest  east  to  west ! 

From  the  dim  north,  where  the  wild  storm-wind  raves 

O'er  the  cold  surge  that  chills  the  shore  it  laves, 
To  sunlit  isles  by  softest  seas  caressed, 
Where  roses  bloom  alway  and  song-birds  nest, 

How  thick  they  lie — like  flecks  upon  the  waves  ! 

There  is  no  mountain-top  so  far  and  high, 
No  desert  so  remote,  no  vale  so  deep. 
No  spot  by  man  so  long  untenanted. 

But  the  pale  moon,  slow  marching  up  the  sky. 
Sees  over  some  lone  grave  the  shadows  creep  ! 
O  Earth  !  art  thou  not  weary  of  thy  dead  ? 


ALEXANDER 

There  was  a  man  whom  all  men  called  The  Great. 
Low  lying  on  his  death-bed,  we  are  told, 
He  bade  his  courtiers  (when  he  should  be  cold, 

Breathless,  and  silent  in  his  last  estate. 

And  they  who  were  to  bury  him  should  wait 
Outside  the  palace)  that  no  cerecloth's  fold 
Or  winding-sheet  should  round  his  hands  be  rolled 

Those  helpless  hands  that  once  had  ruled  the  state  ! 

Thus  spake  he  :  "  On  the  black  pall  let  them  lie, 

Empty  and  lorn,  that  all  the  world  may  see 

How  of  his  riches  there  was  nothing  left 

To  Alexander  when  he  came  to  die." 

Lord  of  two  worlds,  as  treasureless  was  he 
As  any  beggar  of  his  crust  bereft  ! 


THE  PLACE 

"  I  GO  TO  PREPARE  A  PLACE  FOR  YOU  " 

I. 

O  Holy  Place,  we  know  not  where  thou  art ! 
Though  one  by  one  our  well-beloved  dead 
From  our  close  claspings  to  thy  bliss  have  fled, 

They  send  no  word  back  to  the  breaking  heart  ; 

And  if,  perchance,  their  angels  fly  athwart 
The  silent  reaches  of  the  abyss  wide-spread, 
The  swift  white-wings  we  see  not,  but  instead 

Only  the  dark  void  keeping  us  apart. 

Where  did  he  set  thee,  O  thou  Holy  Place  ? 

Made  he  a  new  world  in  the  heavens  high  hung, 
So  far  from  this  poor  earth  that  even  yet 

Its  first  glad  rays  have  traversed  not  the  space 
That  lies  between  us,  nor  their  glory  flung 
On  the  old  home  its  sons  can  ne'er  forget  ? 

II. 

But  what  if  on  some  fair,  auspicious  night, 

Like  that  on  which  the  shepherds  watched  of  old, 
Down  from  far  skies,  in  burning  splendor  rolled. 
Shall  stream  the  radiance  of  a  star  more  bright 
Than  ever  yet  hath  shone  on  mortal  sight — 
Swift  shafts  of  light,  like  javelins  of  gold. 


THE   PLACE  273 

Wave  after  wave  of  glory  manifold, 
From  zone  to  zenith  flooding  all  the  height  ? 
And  what  if,  moved  by  some  strange  inner  sense, 
Some  instinct,  than  pure  reason  wiser  far. 
Some  swift  clairvoyance  that  annulleth  space. 
All  men  shall  cry,  with  sudden  joy  intense, 
"Behold,  behold  this  new  resplendent  star— 
Our    heaven    at    last   revealed  '.—the    Place !    the 
Place  !  " 

III. 

Then  shall  the  heavenly  host  with  one  accord 
Veil  their  bright  faces  in  obeisance  meet, 
While  swift  they  haste  the  Glorious  One  to  greet. 

Then  shall  Orion  own  at  last  his  Lord, 

And  from  his  belt  unloose  the  blazing  sword, 
While  pale  proud  Ashtaroth  with  footsteps  fleet, 
Her  jewelled  crown  drops  humbly  at  his  feet, 

And  Lyra  strikes  her  harp's  most  rapturous  chord. 

O  Earth,  bid  all  your  lonely  isles  rejoice  ! 
Break  into  singing,  all  ye  silent  hills  ; 

And  ye,  tumultuous  seas,  make  quick  reply  ! 

Let  the  remotest  desert  find  a  voice  ! 
The  whole  creation  to  its  centre  thrills. 

For  the  new  light  of  Heaven  is  in  the  sky  I 


TO   A   GODDESS 

Lift  up  thy  torch,  O  Goddess,  grand  and  fair  ! 
Let  its  light  stream  across  the  waiting  seas 
As  banners  float  upon  the  yielding  breeze 

From  the  king's  tent,  his  presence  to  declare. 

And  as  his  heralds  haste  to  do  their  share, 
Shouting  his  praise  and  sounding  his  decrees, 
So  let  the  waves  in  loftiest  symphonies 

Proclaim  thy  glory  to  the  listening  air  ! 

Thou  star-crowned  one,  the  nations  watch  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  patient  earth  has  waited  long — 
To  thee  her  toiling  millions  stretch  their  hands 

From  the  far  hills  and  o'er  the  rolling  sea. 
Lift  up  thy  torch,  O  beautiful  and  strong, 
A  beacon-lisrht  to  earth's  remotest  lands. 


O.  W.    H. 
(August  29,  1809.) 

"  How  shall  I  crown  this  child  ?  "  fair  Summer  cried. 

"  May  wasted  all  her  violets  long  ago  ; 

No  longer  on  the  hills  June's  roses  glow, 
Flushing  with  tender  bloom  the  pastures  wide. 
My  stately  lilies  one  by  one  have  died  : 

The  clematis  is  but  a  ghost — and  lo  ! 

In  the  fair  meadow-lands  no  daisies  blow  ; 
How  shall  I  crown  this  Summer  child  ?  "  she  sighed. 
Then  quickly  smiled.     *'  For  him,  for  him,"  she  said, 
"  On  every  hill  my  golden-rod  shall  flame, 
Token  of  all  my  prescient  soul  foretells. 
His  shall  be  golden  song  and  golden  fame — 
Long  golden  years  with  love  and  honor  wed — 
And  crowns,  at  last,  of  silver  immortelles  !  " 


GIFTS    FOR    THE    KING 
(H.  W.  L.,  February  27th) 

What  good  gifts  can  we  bring  to  thee,  O  King, 

O  royal  poet,  on  this  day  of  days  ? 

No  golden  crown,  for  thou  art  crowned  with  bays  ; 
No  jewelled  sceptre,  and  no  signet  ring, 
O'er  distant  realms  far-flashing  rays  to  fling  ; 

For  well  we  know  thy  beckoning  finger  sways 

A  mightier  empire,  and  the  world  obeys. 
No  lute,  for  thou  hast  only  need  to  sing  ; 
No  rare  perfumes,  for  thy  pure  life  makes  sweet 

The  air  about  thee,  even  as  when  the  rose 
Swings  its  bright  censer  down  the  garden-path. 
Love  drops  its  fragrant  lilies  at  thy  feet  ; 

Fame  breathes  thy  name  to  each  sweet  wind  that  blows. 
What  can  we  bring  to  him  who  all  things  hath  ? 


RECOGNITION 
(H.  W.  L.) 


Who  was  the  first  to  bid  thee  glad  all-hail, 
O  friend  and  master  ?     Who  with  winged  feet 
Over  the  heavenly  hills  flew,  fast  and  fleet. 

To  bring  thee  welcome  from  beyond  the  veil  ? 

The  mighty  bards  of  old  ? — Thy  Dante,  pale 
With  high  thoughts  even  yet,  Virgil  the  sweet, 
Old  Homer,  trumpet-tongued,  and  Chaucer,  meet 

To  clasp  thy  stainless  hand  ?     What  nightingale 

Of  all  that  sing  in  heaven  sang  first  to  thee  ? 
Through  all  the  hallelujahs  didst  thou  hear 
Spencer  still  pouring  his  melodious  lays, 

Majestic  Milton's  clarion,  strong  and  free. 
Or,  golden  link  between  the  far  and  near, 
Bryant's  clear  chanting  of  the  eternal  days  ? 

II. 

Nay,  but  not  these  !  not  these  !     Even  though  apace, 
Long  rank  on  rank,  with  swift  yet  stately  tread 
They  came  to  meet  thee — the  immortal  dead — 

Yet  Love  ran  faster  !     All  the  lofty  place. 

All  the  wide,  luminous,  enchanted  space 

Glistened  with  Shining  Ones  who  thither  sped — 
The  countless  host  thy  song  had  comforted  ! 

What  light,  what  love  illumed  each  radiant  face  ! 


2^]%  RECOGNITION 

The  Rachels  thou  hadst  sung  to  in  the  dark, 
The  Davids  who  for  Absaloms  had  wept, 

The  fainting  ones  who  drank  thy  balm  and  wine, 
High  souls  that  soared  with  thee  as  soars  the  lark, 
Children  who  named  thee,  smiling,  ere  they  slept — 
These  gave  thee  first  the  heavenly  countersign  I 


SHAKESPEARE 
(April  23,  1 664-1 889) 

Nay,  Master,  dare  we  speak  ?     O  mighty  shade, 
Sitting  enthroned  where  awful  splendors  are, 
Beyond  the  light  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 

How  shall  we  breathe  thy  high  name  undismayed  ? 

Poet,  in  royal  majesty  arrayed. 
Walking  with  mute  gods  through  the  realms  afar- 
Seer,  whose  wide  vision  time  nor  death  can  bar. 

We  would  but  kiss  thy  feet,  abashed,  afraid  ! 

But  yet  we  love  thee,  and  great  love  is  bold. 
Love,  O  our  master,  with  his  heart  of  flame 
And  eye  of  fire,  dares  even  to  look  on  thee, 

For  whom  the  ages  lift  their  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  his  glad  tongue  shall  syllable  thy  name 
Till  time  is  lost  in  God's  unsounded  sea  I 


TO    E.    C.    S. 

WITH   A   ROSE   FROM   CONWAY   CASTLE 

On  hoary  Conway's  battlemented  height, 

O  poet-heart,  I  pluck  for  thee  a  rose  ! 

Through  arch  and  court  the  sweet  wind  wandering  goes ; 
Round  each  high  tower  the  rooks,  in  airy  flight, 
Circle  and  wheel,  all  bathed  in  amber  light ; 

Low  at  my  feet  the  winding  river  flows  ; 

Valley  and  town,  entranced  in  deep  repose, 
War  doth  no  more  appall,  nor  foes  affright ! 
Thou  knowest  how  softly  on  the  castle  walls. 

Where  mosses  creep,  and  ivys  far  and  free 

Fling  forth  their  pennants  to  the  freshening  breeze, 
Like  God's  own  benizon  this  sunshine  falls. 

Therefore,  O  friend,  across  the  sundering  seas 

Fair  Conway  sends  this  sweet  wild  rose  to  thee  ! 


A    CHRISTMAS    SONNET 

I  WAKE  at  midnight  from  a  slumber  deep. 

Hark !  are  the  clear  stars  singing  ?     Sweet  and  low, 

As  from  far  skies,  floats  music's  liquid  flow, 
Waking  earth's  happy  children  from  their  sleep. 
Now,  from  the  bells  a  myriad  voices  leap, 

And  all  the  brazen  lilies  are  aglow 

With  rapturous  heart-beats,  swinging  to  and  fro 
As  the  glad  chimes  their  rhythmic  pulsing  keep. 
O  soul  of  mine,  join  thou  the  high  refrain 

That  rings  from  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea. 

Like  song  of  birds  that  do  but  soar  and  sing  ! 
O  heart  of  mine,  what  room  hast  thou  for  pain  ? 

With  love  and  joy  make  holy  symphony. 
And  keep  to-day  the  birthday  of  thy  King  ! 


POVERTY 

The  city  woke.     Down  the  long  market-place 

Her  sad  eyes  wandered,  but  no  tears  they  shed. 

In  her  bare  home  a  little  child  lay  dead  ; 
Yet  she  was  here,  with  white,  impassive  face, 
And  hands  that  had  no  beauty  and  no  grace, 

Selling  her  small  wares  for  a  bit  of  bread  ! 

Since  they  who  live  must  eat  though  sore  bestead, 
What  time  had  she  to  weep — what  breathing  space  ? 
Poor  even  in  words,  she  had  no  fitting  phrase 

Wherein  to  tell  the  story  of  her  dole, 
But  stood,  like  Niobe,  a  thing  of  stone, 
Or  mutely  went  on  her  accustomed  ways, 

Or  counted  her  small  gains,  while  her  dumb  soul, 
Shut  in  with  grief,  could  only  make  its  moan ! 


SURPRISES 


O  Earth,  that  had  so  long  in  darkness  lain, 
Waiting  and  listening  for  the  Voice  that  cried, 
'*  Let  there  be  light !  " — on  thy  first  eventide 
What  woe,  what  fear,  wrung  thy  dumb  soul  with  pain! 
In  darkling  space  down  dropt  the  red  sun,  slain, 
With  all  his  banners  drooping.     Far  and  wide 
Spread  desolation's  vast  and  blackening  tide. 
How  couldst  thou  know  that  day  would  dawn  again  ? 
But  the  long  hours  wore  on,  till  lo  !  pale  gleams 

Of  faint,  far  glory  lit  the  eastern  skies. 
Broadening  and  reddening  till  the  sun's  full  beams 

Broke  in  clear,  golden  splendor  on  thine  eyes. 
Darkness  and  brooding  anguish  were  but  dreams, 
Lost  in  a  trembling  wonder  of  surprise ! 


Even  so,  O  Life,  all  tremulous  with  woe, 
Thou  too  didst  cower  when,  without  sound  or  jar, 
From  the  high  zenith  sinking  fast  and  far, 

Thy  sun  went  out  of  heaven !     How  couldst  thou  know 

In  that  dark  hour,  that  never  tide  could  flow 
So  ebon-black,  nor  ever  mountain-bar 
Breast  night  so  deep,  without  or  moon  or  star, 

But  that  the  morning  yet  again  must  glow  ? 


284  SURPRISES 

God  never  leaves  thee  in  relentless  dark. 

Slowly  the  dawn  on  unbelieving  eyes 
Breaketh  at  last.     Day  brightens — and,  oh  hark  ! 

A  flood  of  bird-song  from  the  tender  skies  ! 
From  storm  and  darkness  thou  hast  found  an  ark, 

Shut  in  with  this  great  marvel  of  surprise  ! 


C.  H.  R. 

(LOST  OFF   HAI-MUN   IN  THE  CHINA  SEA) 

In  what  wide  Wonderland,  or  near,  or  far, 
Press  on  to-day  thy  swift  adventurous  feet — 
Thou  who  wert  wont  the  Orient  skies  to  greet 

With  song  and  laughter,  and  to  climb  the  bar 

Of  mountain  ranges  where  the  Cloud-gods  are, 
With  brave,  glad  steps,  as  eager  and  as  fleet 
As  a  young  lover's,  who,  on  errand  sweet, 

Seeks  the  one  face  that  is  his  guiding  star  ? 

The  far  blue  seas  engulfed  thee,  ohf!  my  brother, 
But  could  not  quench  thy  spirit's  lofty  fire. 
Nor  daunt  the  soul  that  knew  not  how  to  quail. 

Earth-quest  thou  didst  but  barter  for  another, 
Where  Alps  on  Alps  before  thee  still  aspire, 
And  where,  in  God's  name,  thou  shalt  yet  prevail ! 


A  NEW   BEATITUDE 

L.  G.  W. 

"  A  NEW  beatitude  I  write  for  thee, 

*  Blessed  are  they  who  are  not  sure  of  things^ 
Nor  strive  to  mount  on  feeble,  finite  wings 

To  heights  where  God's  strong  angels,  soaring  free, 

Halt  and  are  silent."     Ah,  the  mystery  ! 

To-day,  O  friend,  beyond  earth's  reckonings 
Of  time  and  space,  beyond  its  jars  and  stings, 

Thou  enterest  where  the  eternal  secrets  be  ! 

Ay,  thou  art  sure  to-day !     No  more  the  bars 
Of  earth's  poor  limitations  hold  thee  back, 
Setting  their  bounds  to  thine  advancing  feet. 

Soar,  lofty  soul,  beyond  the  farthest  stars, 

Where  hope  nor  yearning  e'er  shall  suffer  lack, 
Nor  knowledge  fail  to  any  that  entreat ! 


COMPENSATION 


Life  of  my  life,  do  you  remember  how, 
At  our  fair  pleasance  gate,  a  stately  tree 
Kept  silent  watch  and  ward  ?     Majestic,  free, 

Its  head  reached  heaven,  while  its  lowest  bough 
Swept  the  green  turf,  and  all  between  was  row 

On  row  of  crested  waves — a  sleeping  sea — 

Or  heaving  billows  tossed  tumultuously, 

When  the  fierce  winds  that  smote  the  mountain's  brow 

Lashed  it  to  sudden  passion.     It  was  old. 

Storm-rocked  for  many  centuries,  it  had  grown 
One  with  the  hills,  the  river  and  the  sod  ; 

Yet  young  it  was,  with  largess  of  red  gold 
For  every  autumn,  and  from  stores  unknown 
Bringing  each  springtime  treasure-trove  to  God. 


II. 


Then  came  a  night  of  terror  and  dismay, 
Uproar  and  lightning,  with  the  furious  sweep 
Of  mighty  winds,  that  raged  from  steep  to  steep, 

And  ere  it  passed  the  great  tree  prostrate  lay ! 

Sleepless  I  mourned  until  the  morning  gray  ; 
Then  forth  I  crept,  as  one  who  goes  to  keep 
Watch  by  his  dead,  too  heartsick  even  to  weep. 

And  hardly  daring  to  behold  the  day. 


288  COMPENSATION 

Lo !  what  vast  splendor  met  my  startled  eyes, 
What  unimagined  space,  what  vision  wide  ! 
Turrets  and  domes,  now  blue,  now  softest  green. 

In  one  unbroken  circuit  kissed  the  skies  ; 

While,  veiled  in  soft  clouds,  radiant  as  a  bride. 
Shone  one  far  sapphire  peak  till  then  unseen  ! 


QUESTIONINGS 

Forth  from  earth's  councils  thou  hast  passed,  O  friend, 
To  those  high  circles  where  God's  angels  are, 
Angels  that  need  no  light  of  sun  or  star  ! 

No  eye  may  follow  thee  as  thou  dost  wend 

Thy  lofty  way  where  heaven's  pure  heights  ascend — 
Above  the  reach  of  earthly  fret  or  jar, 
Where  no  rude  touch  the  blissful  peace  can  mar, 

Where  all  harsh  sounds  in  one  soft  concord  blend. 

What  have  ye  seen,  O  beauty-loving  eyes  ? 
What  have  ye  heard,  O  ears  attuned  to  hear 

And  to  interpret  heaven's  high  harmonies  ? 

What  problems  hast  thou  solved,  thou  who  with  clear 

Undaunted  gaze  didst  search  the  farthest  skies  ? 
And  dost  thou  still  love  on,  O  heart  most  dear  ? 


REMEMBRANCE 

I  DO  remind  me  how,  when,  by  a  bier, 
I  looked  my  last  on  an  unanswering  face 
Serenely  waiting  for  the  grave's  embrace, 
One  who  would  fain  have  comforted  said  :  "  Dear, 
This  is  the  worst.     Life's  bitterest  drop  is  here. 
Impartial  fate  has  done  you  this  one  grace, 
That  till  you  go  to  your  appointed  place. 
Or  soon  or  late,  there  is  no  more  to  fear." 
It  was  not  true,  my  soul  t  it  was  not  true  ! 
"  Thou  art  not  lost  while  I  remember  thee. 
Lover  and  friend  !  "  I  cry,  with  bated  breath. 
What  if  the  years,  slow-creeping  like  the  blue. 
Resistless  tide,  should  blot  that  face  from  me  ? 
Not  to  remember  would  be  worse  than  death  ! 


IN   THE   HIGH   TOWER 

Safe  in  the  high  tower  of  thy  love  I  wait, 
Secure  and  still  whatever  winds  may  blow, 
Although  no  more  thy  banners,  bending  low, 

Salute  me  from  afar,  when,  all  elate, 

I  haste  to  meet  thee  at  the  postern-gate. 
No  more  I  hear  thy  trumpet's  eager  flow 
Through  the  far,  listening  silence  come  and  go 

To  greet  me  where  I  bide  in  lonely  state. 

Thy  King  hath  sent  thee  on  some  high  emprise, 
Some  lofty  embassage,  some  noble  quest. 

To  a  strange  land  whence  cometh  sound  nor  sign. 

Yet  evermore  I  lift  my  tranquil  eyes, 

Knowing  that  Love  but  doeth  Love's  behest — 
Afar  or  near,  my  dear  lord  still  is  mine  ! 


AFTERNOON    SONGS 


FOUR-O'CLOCKS 

It  is  mid-afternoon.     Long,  long  ago 
Each  morning-glory  sheathed  the  slender  horn 
It  blew  so  gayly  on  the  hills  of  morn, 

And  fainted  in  the  noontide's  fervid  glow. 

Gone  are  the  dew-drops  from  the  rose's  heart — 
Gone  with  the  freshness  of  the  early  hours, 
The  songs  that  filled  the  air  with  silver  showers, 

The  lovely  dreams  that  were  of  morn  a  part. 

Yet  still  in  tender  light  the  garden  lies  ; 

The  warm,  sweet  winds  are  whispering  soft  and  low ; 

Brown  bees  and  butterflies  flit  to  and  fro  ; 
The  peace  of  heaven  is  in  the  o'erarching  skies. 

And  here  be  four-o'clocks,  just  opening  wide 

Their  many  colored  petals  to  the  sun, 

As  glad  to  live  as  if  the  evening  dun 
Were  far  away,  and  morning  had  not  died  1 


A   DREAM   OF   SONGS   UNSUNG 

Whence  it  came  I  did  not  know, 
How  it  came  I  could  not  tell, 
But  I  heard  the  music  flow 
Like  the  pealing  of  a  bell ; 
Up  and  down  the  wild -wood  arches, 
Through  the  sombre  firs  and  larches. 
Long  I  heard  it  rise  and  swell ; 
Long  I  lay,  with  half-shut  eyes. 
Wrapped  in  dreams  of  Paradise  ! 

Then  the  wondrous  music  poured 
Yet  a  fuller,  stronger  strain, 
Till  my  soul  in  rapture  soared 
Out  of  reach  of  toil  and  pain  ! 
Then,  oh  then,  I  know  not  how. 
Then,  oh  then,  I  know  not  where, 
I  was  borne,  serene  and  slow, 
Through  the  boundless  fields  of  air- 
Past  the  sunset's  golden  bars. 
Past  long  ranks  of  glittering  stars, 
To  a  realm  where  time  was  not, 
And  its  secrets  were  forgot ! 

Land  of  shadows,  who  may  know 
Where  thy  golden  lilies  blow  ? 
Land  of  shadows,  on  what  star 
In  the  blue  depths  shining  far, 
Or  in  what  appointed  place 


A   DREAM   OF  SONGS   UNSUNG  29/ 

In  the  unmeasured  realms  of  space, 
High  as  heaven,  or  deep  as  hell, 
Thou  dost  lie  what  tongue  can  tell  ? 
Send  from  out  thy  mystic  portals 
With  the  holy  chrism  to-day. 
One  of  all  thy  high  immortals 
Who  shall  teach  me  what  to  say  I 

O  beloveds,  all  the  air 

Was  a  faint,  ethereal  mist 

Touched  with  rose  and  amethyst — 

Glints  of  gold,  and  here  and  there 

Purple  splendors  that  were  gone, 

Like  the  glory  of  the  dawn. 

Ere  one  caught  them.     Soft  and  gray, 

Lit  by  many  a  pearly  ray, 

Were  the  low  skies  bending  dim 

To  the  far  horizon's  rim  ; 

And  the  landscape  stretched  away. 

Fair,  illusive,  like  a  dream 

Wherein  all  things  do  but  seem  ! 

There  were  mountains,  but  they  rose 

O'er  the  subtile  vale's  repose, 

Light  as  clouds  that  far  and  high 

Soar  to  meet  the  untroubled  sky. 

There  were  trees  that  overhead 

Wide  their  sheltering  branches  spread, 

Yet  were  empty  as  the  shade 

By  the  quivering  vine-leaves  made. 

There  were  roses,  rich  with  bloom, 

Swinging  censers  of  perfume 

Sweet  as  fragrant  winds  of  May 

Blowing  through  spring's  secret  bowers  ; 

Yet  so  phantom-like  were  they 

That  they  seemed  the  ghosts  of  flowers. 


298  A   DREAM   OF   SONGS    UNSUNG 

Oh,  the  music  sweet  and  strange 
In  that  land's  enchanted  range  ! 
Like  the  pealing  of  the  bells 
When  the  brazen  flowers  are  swinging 
And  the  angelus  is  ringing, 
Soaring,  echoing,  far  and  near. 
Through  the  vales  and  up  the  dells — 
Softly  on  the  enraptured  ear 
A  melodious  murmur  swells  ! 
As  the  rhythm  of  the  river 
Day  and  night  goes  on  forever, 
So  that  pulsing  stream  of  song 
Rolls  its  silver  waves  along. 
Even  silence  is  but  sound, 
Deeper,  softer,  more  profound  ! 

All  the  portals  were  thrown  wide  ! 
Stretching  far  on  either  side 
Ran  the  streets,  like  silver  mist, 
By  the  moon's  pale  splendor  kissed  ; 
And  adown  the  shadowy  way. 
Forth  from  many  a  still  retreat, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
Or  in  goodly  companies  ; 
Gliding  on  in  long  array, 
Light  and  fleet,  with  silent  feet, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
Phantoms  that  I  could  not  number, 
Countless  as  the  wraiths  of  slumber, 
Passed  before  my  wondering  eyes  ! 

Then  I  grew  aware  of  one 
Standing  by  me  in  the  dun, 
Gray  half-twilight.     All  the  place 
Grew  softly  radiant ;  but  his  face, 


A   DREAM    OF    SONGS   UNSUNG  299 

Albeit  unveiled,  I  could  not  see 

For  the  awe  that  compassed  me. 

Swift  I  spoke,  by  longings  swayed 

Deeper  than  my  words  betrayed  : 

"  Master,"  with  clasped  hands  I  prayed, 

*'  Who  are  these  ?     Are  they  the  dead  ?  " 

**  Nay,  they  never  lived,"  he  said  ; 

**  Whence  art  thou  ?     How  earnest  thou  here  ?  " 

Low  I  answered,  then,  in  fear  : 

"  Sir,  I  know  not ;  as  I  lay 

Dreaming  at  the  close  of  day, 

Wondrous  music,  thrilling  through  me. 

To  this  land  of  phantoms  drew  me. 

Though  I  knew  not  how  or  why, 

Even  as  instinct  draws  the  bird 

Where  Spring's  far-off  voice  is  heard. 

Tell  me,  Master,  where  am  I  ?  " 

**Thou  art  in  the  border-land, 

On  the  farthest,  utmost  strand 

Of  the  sea  that  lies  between 

All  that  is  and  is  not  seen. 

Thou  art  where  the  wraiths  of  song 

Come  and  go,  a  phantom  throng. 

'Tis  their  heart's  melodious  beat 

Fills  the  air  with  whispers  sweet ! 

These,  O  child,  are  songs  unsung — 

Songs  unbreathed  by  human  tongue  ; 

These  are  they  that  all  in  vain 

Mightiest  masters  wooed  amain — 

Children  of  their  heart  and  brain 

That  they  could  not  warm  to  life 

By  their  being's  utmost  strife. 

Every  bard  that  ever  sung 

Since  the  hoary  earth  was  young 

Knew  the  song  he  could  not  sing 


300  A   DREAM   OF   SONGS    UNSUNG 

Was  his  soul's  best  blossoming, 
Knew  the  thought  he  could  not  hold 
Shrined  his  spirit's  purest  gold. 
Look !  " 

Where  rose  the  city's  gate 
In  majestic,  sculptured  state, 
From  a  far-off  battle -plain, 
Through  the  javelins'  silver  rain 
Bearing  buckler,  lance,  and  shield, 
And  their  standard's  glittering  field, 
Eager,  yet  with  shout  nor  din. 
Came  a  great  host  trooping  in. 
Burned  their  eyes  with  martial  fire, 
And  the  glow  of  proud  desire. 
Such  as  gods  and  hero's  filled 
When  their  mighty  souls  were  thrilled 
By  old  Homer's  golden  lyre  ! 


Under  dim  cathedral  arches 
Pacing  sad,  pacing  slow. 
As  to  beat  of  funeral  marches 
Or  to  music's  rhythmic  flow — 
With  their  solemn  brows  uplifted. 
And  their  hands  upon  their  breasts, 
Where  the  deepest  shadows  drifted, 
One  by  one  pale  phantoms  pressed. 
Lost  in  dreams  of  heights  supernal. 
Mystic  dreams  of  Paradise, 
Or  of  woful  depths  infernal. 

Slow  they  passed  before  mine  eyes. 
Oh,  the  vision's  pallid  splendor  ! 
Oh,  the  grandeur  of  their  mien — 
Kin,  by  birthright  proud  and  tender. 
To  the  matchless  Florentine  ! 


A  DREAM   OF  SONGS   UNSUNG  3OI 

In  stately  solitude, 

Whereon  might  none  intrude — 

Majestic,  grand  and  calm. 

And  bearing  each  the  palm  ; 

Dwelling,  serene  and  fair, 

In  most  enchanted  air, 

Where  softest  music  crept 

O'er  harp-strings  deftly  swept, 

And  organ-thunders  rolled 

Like  storm-winds  through  the  wold, 

They  stood  in  strength  sublime 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  time — 

They  who  had  been  a  part 

Of  Milton's  mighty  heart  1 

And  where,  mysterious  ones. 

Are  Shakespeare's  princely  sons, 

Bearing  in  lavish  hands 

The  spoil  of  many  lands  ? 

From  castles  lifted  far 

Against  the  evening  star, 

Where  royal  banners  float 

O'er  rampart,  tower,  and  moat. 

And  the  white  moonlight  sleeps 

Upon  the  Donjon  keeps  ; 

From  fairy-haunted  dells 

Among  the  lonely  fells  ; 

From  banks  where  wild  thyme  grows 

And  the  blue  violet  blows  ; 

From  caverns  grim,  and  caves 

Lashed  by  the  deep  sea-waves  ; 

From  darkling  forest  shade, 

From  busy  haunts  of  trade, 

From  market,  court,  and  camp, 

Where  folly  rings  her  bells. 


302  A  DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG 

Or  sorrow  tolls  her  knells, 
Or  where  in  cloister  cells 
The  scholar  trims  his  lamp — 
Wearing  the  sword,  the  gown, 
The  motley  of  the  clown, 
The  beggar's  rags,  the  dole 
Of  the  remorseful  soul, 
The  wedding-robe,  the  ring, 
The  shroud's  white  blossoming, 
O  myriad-minded  man, 
Thus  thine  immortal  clan 
Passed  down  the  endless  ways 
Of  the  eternal  days  ! 

Then  said  I  to  my  spirit : 

**  These  are  they  who  wore  the  crown  ; 

Well  the  king's  sons  may  inherit 

All  his  glory  and  renown. 

Where  are  they — the  songs  unsung 

By  the  humbler  bards  whose  lyres 

Through  earth's  lowly  vales  have  rung, 

Like  the  notes  of  woodland  choirs  ? 

They  whose  silver-sandalled  feet 

Never  climbed  the  clouds  to  meet  ? " 

Where  ? — The  air  grew  full  of  laughter 

Low  and  sweet,  and  following  after 

Came  the  softest  breath  of  singing 

As  if  lily  bells  were  ringing  ; 

And  from  all  the  happy  closes, 

Crowned  with  daisies,  crowned  with  roses. 

Bearing  woodland  ferns  for  palm-boughs  in 

their  hands, 
From  the  dim  secluded  places. 
Through  the  wide  enchanted  spaces, 


A   DREAM   OF   SONGS   UNSUNG  303 

With  their  song-illumined  faces 
Swept  the  shadowy  minstrel  bands ! 

Songs  unsung,  the  high  and  lowly, 
Songs,  the  holy  and  unholy, 
In  that  purest  air  grown  wholly 
Clean  from  every  spot  and  stain  ! 
And  I  knew  as  endless  ages 
Still  were  turning  life's  full  pages, 
Each  should  find  his  own  again — 
Find  the  song  he  could  not  sing, 
As  his  soul's  best  blossoming  ! 


QUESTIONING  A  ROSE 

It  was  fair,  it  was  sweet, 

And  it  blossomed  at  my  feet. 

"  O  thou  peerless  rose  1  "  I  said, 
''  Art  thou  heir  to  roses  dead — 
Roses  that  their  petals  shed 

In  the  winds  of  long  ago  ? 

Who  bequeathed  to  thee  the  glow 
Of  thy  perfect,  radiant  heart  ? 

What  proud  queen  of  fire  and  snow 
Lived  to  make  thee  what  thou  art  ? 

'*  Who  gave  thee  thy  nameless  grace 

And  the  beauty  of  thy  face, 

Touched  thy  lips  with  fragrant  wine. 
Pledging  thee  in  cups  divine  ? 

On  some  long-forgotten  day, 

When  earth  kept  glad  holiday. 

One  bright  rose  was  born,  I  think, 
Dewy,  sweet,  and  soft  and  pink — 

Born,  more  blest  than  others  are. 

To  be  thy  progenitor ! 

**  Oh,  the  roses  that  have  died 

In  the  unremembered  Junes  1 

Oh,  the  roses  that  have  sighed 
Unto  long-forgotten  runes  ! 

Dost  thou  know  their  secrets  dear  ? 


QUESTIONING  A   ROSE  305 

Have  they  whispered  in  thine  ear 
Mysteries  of  the  rain  and  dew, 
And  the  sunshine  that  they  knew  ? 
Have  they  told  thee  how  the  breeze 
Wooed  them,  and  the  amorous  bees  ? 

*'  Silent,  art  thou  ?     Thy  repose 

Mocks  me,  yet  I  fain  would  know 

Art  thou  kin  to  one  rare  rose 
Of  a  summer  long  ago  ? 

It  was  sweet,  it  was  fair  ; 

Someone  twined  it  in  my  hair, 

When  my  young  cheek,  blushing  red, 
Shamed  the  roses,  someone  said. 

Dust  and  ashes  though  it  be, 

Still  its  soul  lives  on  in  thee." 


THE    FALLOW   FIELD 

The  sun  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down  ; 
The  night  mist  shroudeth  the  sleeping  town  ; 
But  if  it  be  dark  or  if  it  be  day, 
If  the  tempests  beat  or  the  breezes  play, 
Still  here  on  this  upland  slope  I  lie, 
Looking  up  to  the  changeful  sky. 

Naught  am  I  but  a  fallow  field  ; 

Never  a  crop  my  acres  yield. 

Over  the  wall  at  my  right  hand 

Stately  and  green  the  corn-blades  stand, 

And  I  hear  at  my  left  the  flying  feet 

Of  the  winds  that  rustle  the  bending  wheat. 

Often  while  yet  the  morn  is  red 

I  list  for  our  master's  eager  tread. 

He  smiles  at  the  young  corn's  towering  height, 

He  knows  the  wheat  is  a  goodly  sight. 

But  he  glances  not  at  the  fallow  field 

Whose  idle  acres  no  wealth  may  yield. 

Sometimes  the  shout  of  the  harvesters 

The  sleeping  pulse  of  my  being  stirs. 

And  as  one  in  a  dream  I  seem  to  feel 

The  sweep  and  the  rush  of  the  swinging  steel, 

Or  I  catch  the  sound  of  the  gay  refrain 

As  they  heap  their  wains  with  the  golden  grain. 


THE   FALLOW   FIELD  307 

Yet,  O  my  neighbors,  be  not  too  proud, 
Though  on  every  tongue  your  praise  is  loud. 
Our  mother  Nature  is  kind  to  me. 
And  I  am  beloved  by  bird  and  bee, 
And  never  a  child  that  passes  by 
But  turns  upon  me  a  grateful  eye. 

Over  my  head  the  skies  are  blue  ; 

I  have  my  share  of  the  rain  and  dew  ; 

I  bask  like  you  in  the  summer  sun 

When  the  long  bright  days  pass,  one  by  one, 

And  calm  as  yours  is  my  sweet  repose 

Wrapped  in  the  warmth  of  the  winter  snows. 

For  little  our  loving  mother  cares 

Which  the  corn  or  the  daisy  bears. 

Which  is  rich  with  the  ripening  wheat. 

Which  with  the  violet's  breath  is  sweet. 

Which  is  red  with  the  clover  bloom, 

Or  which  for  the  wild  sweet-fern  makes  room. 

Useless  under  the  summer  sky 

Year  after  year  men  say  I  lie. 

Little  they  know  what  strength  of  mine 

I  give  to  the  trailing  blackberry  vine  ; 

Little  they  know  how  the  wild  grape  grows. 

Or  how  my  life-blood  flushes  the  rose. 

Little  they  think  of  the  cups  I  fill 

For  the  mosses  creeping  under  the  hill  ; 

Little  they  think  of  the  feast  I  spread 

For  the  wild  wee  creatures  that  must  be  fed  : 

Squirrel  and  butterfly,  bird  and  bee, 

And  the  creeping  things  that  no  eye  may  see. 


308  THE   FALLOW   FIELD 

Lord  of  the  harvest,  thou  dost  know 
How  the  summers  and  winters  go. 
Never  a  ship  sails  east  or  west 
Laden  with  treasures  at  my  behest, 
Yet  my  being  thrills  to  the  voice  of  God 
When  I  give  my  gold  to  the  golden-rod. 


OUT    AND    IN 

A  SHIP  went  sailing  out  to  sea, 

A  gallant  ship  and  gay, 
When  skies  were  bright  as  skies  could  be, 
One  sunny  morn  in  May. 
The  light  winds  blew, 
The  white  sails  flew. 
The  pennants  floated  far ; 
No  stain  I  saw, 
Nor  any  flaw, 
From  deck  to  shining  spar  ! 
And  from  the  prow,  with  eager  eyes, 
Hope  gazed  afar — to  Paradise. 

A  ship  came  laboring  in  from  sea, 

One  wild  December  night ; 
Ah  !  never  ship  was  borne  to  lee 
In  sadder,  sorrier  plight ! 
Rent  were  her  sails 
By  furious  gales. 
No  pennants  floated  far; 
Twisted  and  torn 
And  all  forlorn 
Were  shuddering  mast  and  spar ! 
But  from  the  prow  Faith's  steady  eyes 
Caught  the  near  light  of  Paradise  ! 


HER    FLOWERS 

"  Nay,  nay,"  she  whispered  low, 
"  I  will  not  have  these  buds  of  folded  snow, 

Nor  yet  the  pallid  bloom 
Of  the  chill  tuberose,  heavy  with  perfume. 

Nor  lilies  waxen  white. 
To  go  with  her  into  the  grave's  dark  night. 

"  But  now  that  she  is  dead 
Bring  ye  the  royal  roses  blushing  red, 

Roses  that  on  her  breast 
All  summer  long,  by  these  pale  hands  caressed, 

Have  lain  in  happy  calm. 
Breathing  their  lives  away  in  bloom  and  balm  ! " 

Roses  for  all  the  joy 
Of  perfect  hours  when  life  had  no  alloy  ; 

When  hope  was  glad  and  gay, 
And  young  Love  sang  his  blissful  roundelay  ; 

And  to  her  eager  eyes 
Each  new  day  oped  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

But,  for  that  she  hath  wept, 
And  over  buried  hopes  long  vigil  kept, 

Bring  mystic  passion-flowers, 
To  tell  the  tale  of  sacrificial  hours 

"When,  lifting  up  her  cross, 
She  bore  it  bravely  on  through  pain  and  loss  I 


HER   FLOWERS  31I 

Then  at  her  blessed  feet, 
That  never  more  shall  haste  on  errands  sweet, 

Lay  fragrant  mignonette 
And  fair  sweet-peas  in  dainty  garlands  set, — 

Dear  humble  flowers,  that  make 
Each  passer-by  the  gladder  for  their  sake  ! 

For  she  who  lieth  here 
Trod  not  alone  the  high  paths  shining  clear, 

With  light  of  star  and  sun 
Falling  undimmed  her  lofty  place  upon  ; 

But  stooped  to  lowliest  ways, 
Filling  with  fragrance  all  the  passing  days  ! 


THREE    LADDIES 

O  SAILORS  sailing  north, 

Where  the  wild  white  surges  roar, 
And  fierce  winds  and  strong  winds 

Blow  down  from  Labrador — 
Have  you  seen  my  three  brave  laddies, 
My  merry  red-cheeked  laddies, 
Three  bold,  adventurous  laddies, 

On  some  tempestuous  shore  ? 

O  sailors  sailing  south, 

Where  the  seas  are  calm  and  blue, 
And  light  clouds  and  soft  clouds 

Are  floating  over  you, 
Say,  have  you  seen  my  laddies, 
My  three  bright,  winsome  laddies. 
My  brown-haired,  smiling  laddies, 

With  hearts  so  leal  and  true  ? 

O  sailors  sailing  east. 

Ask  the  sea-gulls  sweeping  by ; 
O  sailors  sailing  west. 

Ask  the  eagles  soaring  high. 
If  they  have  seen  my  laddies, 
My  careless,  heedless  laddies. 
Three  debonair  young  laddies. 

Beneath  the  wide,  wide  sky  ? 


THREE   LADDIES  313 

O  sailors,  if  you  find  them, 

Pray  send  them  back  to  me  ; 
For  them  the  winds  go  sighing 

Through  every  lonely  tree — 
For  these  three  wandering  laddies, 
My  tender,  bright-eyed  laddies, 
The  laughter-loving  laddies. 

Whom  they  no  longer  see. 

There  are  three  men  who  love  me, 

Three  men  with  bearded  lips  ; 
But  oh  !  ye  gallant  sailors 

Who  sail  the  sea  in  ships — 
In  elf-land,  or  in  cloud-land. 

Or  on  the  dreamland  shore. 
Can  you  find  the  little  laddies 

Whom  I  can  find  no  more  ? 
Three  quiet,  thoughtful  laddies, 
Three  merry,  winsome  laddies, 
Three  rollicking,  frolicking  laddies, 

On  any  far-off  shore  ? 


SUMMER,   1882 

R.    W.    E. 

O  Summer,  thou  fair  laggard,  where  art  thou  ? 
In  what  far  sunlit  land  of  balm  and  bloom, 
What  slumbrous  bowers  of  beauty  and  perfume, 

Are  roses  crowning  thine  imperial  brow  ? 

Where  art  thou,  Summer  ?     We  should  see  thy  feet 
Even  now  upon  the  mountains.     All  the  hills 
Rise  up  to  greet  thee.     Nature's  great  heart  thrills, 

Faint  with  expectant  joy.     Where  art  thou,  sweet  ? 

And  Summer  answered  :  "  Lo  !  I  wait !  I  wait ! 

To  the  far  North  I  bend  my  listening  ear  ; 

By  day,  by  night,  my  soul  keeps  watch  to  hear 
One  high,  clear  strain  that  rises  soon  nor  late  I 

"  Why  should  I  haste  where  light  and  song  have  fled  ? 

The  '  Woodnotes  '  wake  no  more  the  Master's  lyre  ; 

The  '  haughty  day  '  fills  no  *  blue  urn  with  fire ' 
When  its  great  lover  lieth  cold  and  dead !  " 


THORNLESS   ROSES 

"  No  ROSE  may  bloom  without  a  thorn  ?  '* 

Come  down  the  garden  paths  and  see 
How  brightly  in  the  scented  air 

They  bloom  for  you  and  me  I 

See  how,  like  rosy  clouds,  they  lie 

Against  the  perfect,  stainless  blue  ! 
See  how  they  toss  their  airy  heads, 

And  smile  for  me,  for  you  ! 

No  scanty  largess,  meanly  doled — 

No  pallid  blooms,  by  two,  by  three, 
But  a  whole  crowd  of  pink-white  wings 
Fluttering  for  you  and  me. 

So  fair  they  are  I  cannot  choose  ; 

I  pluck  the  rich  spoils  here  and  there  ; 
I  heap  them  on  your  waiting  arms  ; 

I  twine  them  in  your  hair. 

There  is  no  thorn  among  them  all — 

No  sharp  sting  in  the  heart  of  bliss — 
No  bitter  in  the  honeyed  cup — 

No  burning  in  the  kiss. 

Nay,  quote  the  proverb  if  you  must, 

And  mock  the  truth  you  will  not  see  ; 
Nathless,  Love's  thornless  roses  blow 

Somewhere  for  you  and  me. 


.  TREASURE-SHIPS 


O  BEAUTIFUL,  Stately  ships, 

Ye  come  from  over  the  seas, 
With  every  sail  full  spread 

To  the  glad,  rejoicing  breeze  ! 
•Ye  come  from  the  dusky  East, 

Ye  come  from  the  golden  West, 
As  birds  that  out  of  the  far  blue  sky 

Fly  each  to  its  sheltered  nest. 

All  spoils  of  the  earth  ye  bring  ; 

From  the  isles  of  far  Cathay, 
From  the  fabled  shores  of  the  Orient, 

The  realms  of  eternal  day. 
The  prisoned  light  of  a  thousand  gems, 

The  gleam  of  the  virgin  gold. 
Lustre  of  silver,  and  sheen  of  pearl. 

Shut  up  in  the  narrow  hold. 

Shawls  from  the  looms  of  Ispahan  ; 

Ivory  white  as  milk  ; 
Shimmer  of  satin  and  rare  brocade, 

And  fold  upon  fold  of  silk  ; 
Gauzes  that  India's  maidens  wear  ; 

Spices,  and  rare  perfumes  ; 
Fruits  that  hold  in  their  honeyed  cups 

The  wealth  of  the  summer  blooms. 


TREASURE-SHIPS  317 

The  blood  of  a  thousand  vines  ; 

The  cotton's  drifted  snow  ; 
The  fragrant  heart  of  the  precious  woods 

That  deep  in  the  tropics  grow  ; 
The  strength  of  the  giant  hills  ; 

The  might  of  the  iron  ore  ; 
The  golden  corn,  and  the  yellow  wheat 

From  earth's  broad  threshing-floor. 

Yet,  O  ye  beautiful  ships  ! 

There  are  ships  that  come  not  back, 
With  flying  pennant  and  swelling  sail, 

Over  yon  shining  track  ! 
Who  can  reckon  their  precious  stores. 

Or  measure  the  might  have  been  ? 
Who  can  tell  what  they  held  for  us— 

The  ships  that  will  ne'er  come  in  ? 


CHOOSING 

Meadow-sweet  or  lily  fair — 

Which  shall  it  be  ? 
Clematis  or  brier-rose, 

Blooming  for  me  ? 
Spicy  pink,  or  violet 
With  the  dews  of  morning  wet, 
Sweet  peas  or  mignonette — 

Which  shall  it  be  ? 

Flowers  in  the  garden-beds, 

Flowers  everywhere  ; 
Blue-bells  and  yellow-bells 

Swinging  in  the  air  ; 
Purple  pansies,  golden  pied  ; 
Pink-white  daisies,  starry-eyed  ; 
Gay  nasturtiums,  deeply  dyed, 

CHmbing  everywhere  ! 

Oh,  the  roses  darkly  red — 

See,  how  they  burn  ! 
Glows  with  all  the  summer  heat 

Each  crimson  urn. 
Bridal  roses  pure  as  snow. 
Yellow  roses  all  a-blow. 
Sweet  blush-roses  drooping  low, 

Wheresoe'er  I  turn  ! 


CHOOSING  319 

Life  is  so  full,  so  sweet- 
How  can  I  choose  ? 

If  I  gather  this  rose, 
That  I  must  lose  ! 

All  are  not  for  me  to  wear  ; 

I  can  only  have  my  share  ; 

Thorns  are  hiding  here  and  there  ; 
How  can  I  choose  ? 


NOT   MINE 

It  is  not  mine  to  run 

With  eager  feet 
Along  life's  crowded  ways, 

My  Lord  to  meet. 

It  is  not  mine  to  pour 

The  oil  and  wine, 
Or  bring  the  purple  robe 

And  linen  fine. 

It  is  not  mine  to  break 

At  his  dear  feet 
The  alabaster-box 

Of  ointment  sweet. 

It  is  not  mine  to  bear 

His  heavy  cross, 
Or  suffer,  for  his  sake, 

All  pain  and  loss. 

It  is  not  mine  to  walk 

Through  valleys  dim, 
Or  climb  far  mountain-heights 

Alone  with  him. 

He  hath  no  need  of  me 

In  grand  affairs, 
Where  fields  are  lost,  or  crowns 

Won  unawares. 


NOT  MINE  321 

Yet,  Master,  if  I  may 

Make  one  pale  flower 
Bloom  brighter,  for  thy  sake, 

Through  one  short  hour  ; 

If  I,  in  harvest-fields 

Where  strong  ones  reap, 
May  bind  one  golden  sheaf 

For  Love  to  keep  ; 

May  speak  one  quiet  word 

When  all  is  still, 
Helping  some  fainting  heart 

To  bear  thy  will ; 

Or  sing  one  high,  clear  song, 

On  which  may  soar 
Some  glad  soul  heavenward, 

I  ask  no  more  ! 


THE    CHAMBER    OF    SILENCE 

One  autumn  day  we  three, 
Who  long  had  borne  each  other  company — 

Grief,  and  my  Heart,  and  I — 
Walked  out  beneath  a  dull  and  leaden  sky. 

The  fields  were  bare  and  brown  ; 
From  the  still  trees  the  dead  leaves  fluttered  down 

There  were  no  birds  to  sing. 
Or  cleave  the  air  on  swift,  rejoicing  wing. 

We  sought  the  barren  sand 
Beside  the  moaning  sea,  and,  hand  in  hand, 

Paced  its  slow  length,  and  talked 
Of  our  supremest  sorrows  as  we  walked. 

Slow  shaking  each  bowed  head, 
**  There  is  no  anguish  like  to  ours,"  we  said  ; 

''  The  glancing  eyes  of  morn 
Fall  on  no  souls  more  utterly  forlorn." 

But  suddenly,  across 
A  narrow  fiord  wherein  wild  billows  toss, 

We  saw  before  our  eyes. 
High  hung  above  the  tide,  a  temple  rise — 

A  temple  wondrous  fair, 
Lifting  its  shining  turrets  in  the  air, 

All  touched  with  golden  gleams. 
Like  the  bright  miracles  we  see  in  dreams. 


THE   CHAMBER   OF   SILENCE  323 

Grief  turned  and  looked  at  me. 
"  We  must  go  thither,  O  my  friends,"  said  she  ; 

Then,  saying  nothing  more, 
With  rapid,  gliding  step  passed  on  before. 

And  we — my  Heart  and  I — 
Where  Grief  went,  we  went,  following  silently, 

Till  in  sweet  solitude 
Beneath  the  temple's  vaulted  roof  we  stood. 

'Twas  like  a  hollow  pearl — 
A  vast  white  sacred  chamber,  where  the  whirl 

Of  passion  stirred  not,  where 
A  luminous  splendor  trembled  in  the  air. 

**  O  friends,  I  know  this  place," 
Said  Grief  at  last,  *'  this  lofty,  silent  space. 

Where,  either  soon  or  late, 
I  and  my  kindred  all  shall  lie  in  state." 

"  But  do  Griefs  die  ?  "  I  cried. 
*'  Some  die — not  all,"  full  calmly  she  replied. 

**  Yet  all  at  last  will  lie 
In  this  fair  chamber,  slumbering  quietly. 

**  Chamber  of  Silence,  this  ; 
Who  brings  his  Grief  here  doth  not  go  amiss. 

Mine  hour  hath  come.     We  three 
Will  walk,  O  friends,  no  more  in  company." 

Then  was  I  dumb.     My  Heart 
And  I — how  could  we  with  our  dear  Grief  part, 

Who  for  so  many  a  day 
Had  walked  beside  us  in  our  lonely  way  ? 


324  THE   CHAMBER   OF   SILENCE 

But  she,  with  matchless  grace, 
And  a  sweet  smile  upon  her  tear-wet  face, 

Said,  *•  Leave  me  here  to  sleep. 
Where  every  Grief  forgets  at  last  to  weep." 

What  could  we  do  but  go  ? 
We  turned  with  slow,  reluctant  feet,  but  lo  I 

The  pearly  door  had  closed, 
Shutting  us  in  where  all  the  Griefs  reposed. 

"Nay,  go  not  back,"  she  said  ; 
"  Retrace  no  steps.     Go  farther  on  instead." 

Then,  on  the  other  side, 
On  noiseless  hinge  another  door  swung  wide, 

Through  which  we  onward  passed 
Into  a  chamber  lowlier  than  the  last, 

But,  oh  !  so  sweet  and  calm 
That  the  hushed  air  was  like  a  holy  psalm. 

"  Chamber  of  Peace  "  was  writ 
Where  the  low  vaulted  roof  arched  over  it. 

Then  knew  we  Grief  must  cease 
When  sacred  Silence  leadeth  unto  Peace. 


THREE    ROSES 

"  Oh,  shall  it  be  a  red  rose,  a  red  rose,  a  red  rose, 
A  deep-tinted  red  rose  ?  "  said  she. 
**  In  the  sunny  garden  closes. 
How  they  burn,  the  dark-red  roses, 

How  they  lift  up  their  glowing  cups  to  me  !  " 

**Oh,  shall  it  be  a  blush  rose,  a  blush  rose,  a  blush  rose, 
A  dewy,  dainty  blush  rose  ?  "  said  she. 
**  At  its  heart  a  flush  so  tender. 
With  what  veiled  and  softened  splendor 

Droopeth  now  its  languid  head  toward  me  1  " 

"  Oh,  shall  it  be  a  white  rose,  a  white  rose,  a  white  rose, 
A  fair  and  fragrant  white  rose  ?  "  said  she. 

**  With  its  pale  cheek  tinted  faintly, 

'Tis  a  vestal,  pure  and  saintly. 
Yet  its  silver  lamp  is  shining  now  for  me !  " 


FOUR    LETTERS 

(INSCRIBED   TO  OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES) 

[In  an  old  almanac  of  the  year  1809,  against  the  date  August  29th, 
there  is  this  record,  **  Son  b."  The  sand  that  was  thrown  upon  the 
fresh  ink  seventy  years  ago  can  still  be  seen  upon  the  page.] 

Four  letters  on  a  yellow  page 

Writ  when  the  century  was  young  ; 

A  few  small  grains  of  shining  sand 
Across  it  lightly  flung  ! 

A  child  was  born — child  nameless  yet ; 

A  son  to  love  till  life  was  o'er  ; 
But  did  no  strange,  sweet  prescience  stir, 

Teaching  of  something  more  ? 

Thy  son  !     O  father,  hadst  thou  known 
What  now  the  wide  world  knows  of  him, 

How  had  thy  pulses  thrilled  with  joy, 
How  had  thine  eye  grown  dim  ! 

Couldst  thou,  through  all  the  swift,  bright  years, 
Have  looked,  with  glad,  far-reaching  gaze, 

And  seen  him  as  he  stands  to-day, 
Crowned  with  unfading  bays — 

While  Love's  red  roses  at  his  feet 
Pour  all  their  wealth  of  rare  perfume, 

And  Truth's  white  Ulies,  pure  as  snow, 
His  lofty  way  illume — 


FOUR    LETTERS  327 

How  had  thy  heart's  strong  throbbing  shook 

The  eager  pen,  the  firm  right  hand, 
That  threw  upon  this  record  quaint 

These  grains  of  glittering  sand ! 

O  irony  of  Time  and  Fate  ! 

That  saves  and  loses,  makes  and  mars, 
Keeps  the  small  dust  upon  the  scales, 

And  blotteth  out  the  stars  ! 


Kingdoms  and  thrones  have  passed  away  ; 

Conquerors  have  fallen,  empires  died, 
And  countless  sons  of  men  gone  down 

Beneath  War's  crimson  tide. 

The  whole  wide  earth  has  changed  its  face  ; 

Nations  clasp  hands  across  the  seas  ; 
They  speak,  and  winds  and  waves  repeat 

The  mighty  symphonies. 

Mountains  have  bowed  their  haughty  crests, 
And  opened  wide  their  ponderous  doors  ; 

The  sea  hath  gathered  in  its  dead. 
Love-wept  on  alien  shores. 

Proud  cities,  wrapped  in  fire  and  flame, 
Have  challenged  all  the  slumbering  land  ; 

Yet  neither  Time  nor  Change  has  touched 
These  few  bright  grains  of  sand  I 


VALDEMAR 

Within  a  city  quaint  and  old, 
When  reigned  King  Alcinor  the  Bold, 
There  dwelt  a  sculptor  whose  renown 
With  pride  and  wonder  filled  the  town. 
And  yet  he  had  not  reached  his  prime  ; 
The  first  warm  glow  of  summer-time 
Had  but  just  touched  his  radiant  face, 
And  moulded  to  a  statelier  grace 
The  stalwart  form  that  trod  the  earth 
As  it  had  been  of  princely  birth. 
So  fair,  so  strong,  so  brave  was  he. 
With  such  a  sense  of  mastery, 
That  Alcinor  upon  his  throne 
No  kinglier  gifts  from  life  could  own 
Than  those  it  brought  from  near  and  far 
To  the  young  sculptor,  Valdemar  ! 
Mayhap  he  was  not  rich— for  Fame, 
To  lend  its  magic  to  his  name. 
Had  outrun  Fortune's  swiftest  pace 
And  conquered  in  the  friendly  race. 
But  a  fair  home  was  his,  where  bees 
Hummed  in  the  laden  mulberry-trees  ; 
Where  cyclamens,  with  rosy  flush, 
Brightened  the  lingering  twilight  hush. 
And  the  gladiolus'  fiery  plume 
Mocked  the  red  rose's  brilliant  bloom ; 
Where  violet  and  wind-flower  hid 


VALDEMAR  329 

The  acacia's  golden  gloom  amid  ; 

Where  starry  jasmines  climbed,  and  where, 

Serenely  calm,  divinely  fair, 

Like  a  white  lily,  straight  and  tall. 

The  loveliest  flower  among  them  all. 

His  sweet  young  wife,  Hermione, 

Sang  to  the  child  upon  her  knee  ! 

Here  beauteous  visions  haunted  him. 
Peopling  the  shadows  soft  and  dim  ; 
Here  the  old  gods  around  him  cast 
The  glamour  of  their  splendors  past. 
Jove  thundered  from  the  awful  sky  ; 
Proud  Juno  trod  the  earth  once  more  ; 
Pale  Isis,  veiled  in  mystery. 
Her  smile  of  mystic  meaning  wore  ; 
Apollo  joyed  in  youth  divine. 
And  Bacchus  wreathed  the  fragrant  vine. 
Here  chaste  Diana,  crescent-crowned, 
With  virgin  footsteps  spurned  the  ground  ; 
Here  rose  fair  Venus  from  the  sea, 
And  that  sad  ghost,  Persephone, 
Wandered,  a  very  shade  of  shades, 
Amid  the  moonlit  myrtle  glades. 
Nor  they  alone.     The  Heavenly  Child, 
The  Holy  Mother,  meek  and  mild. 
Angels  on  glad  wing  soaring  free. 
Pale,  praying  saints  on  bended  knee, 
Martyrs  with  palms,  and  heroes  brave 
Who  for  their  guerdon  won  a  grave. 
Earth's  laughing  children,  rosy  sweet. 
And  the  soul's  phantoms,  fair  and  fleet — 
All  these  were  with  him  night  and  day, 
Charming  the  happy  hours  away  ! 
Oh,  \yho  so  rich  as  Valdemar  ? 


330  VALDEMAR 

What  ill  his  joyous  life  can  mar  ? 
With  home  and  glorious  visions  blest, 
Glad  in  the  work  he  loveth  best  ! 

But  Love's  clear  eyes  are  quick  to  see  ; 
And  one  fair  spring,  Hermione. 
Sitting  beneath  her  mulberry-tree 
With  her  young  children  at  her  knee, 
Saw  Valdemar  from  day  to  day, 
As  one  whose  thoughts  were  far  away, 
With  folded  arms  and  drooping  head 
Pace  the  green  aisles  with  silent  tread  ; 
Saw  him  stand  moodily  apart 
With  idle  hands  and  brooding  heart. 
Or  gaze  at  his  still  forms  of  clay, 
Himself  as  motionless  as  they  ! 
**  O  Valdemar!  "  she  cried,  "  you  bear 
Some  burden  that  I  do  not  share  ! 
I  am  your  wife,  your  own  true  wife  ; 
Shut  me  not  out  from  heart  and  life  ! 
Why  brood  you  thus  in  silent  pain  ?  " 
As  shifts  the  changing  weather-vane. 
So  came  the  old  smile  to  his  face, 
Saluting  her  with  courtly  grace. 
"  Nay,  nay,  Hermione,  not  so  ! 
No  secret,  bitter  grief  I  know  ; 
But,  haunting  all  my  dreams  by  night 
And  thoughts  by  day,  one  vision  bright. 
One  nameless  wonder,  near  me  stands. 
Claiming  its  birthright  at  my  hands. 
It  hath  your  eyes,  Hermione, 
Your  tender  lips  that  smile  for  me  ; 
It  hath  your  perfect,  stately  grace, 
The  matchless  beauty  of  your  face. 
But  it  hath  more  !  for  never  yet 


VALDEMAK  33I 

On  brow  of  earthly  mould  was  set 
Such  splendor  and  such  light  as  streams 
From  this  rare  phantom  of  my  dreams  !  " 

Lightly  she  turned,  and  led  him  through 
Under  the  jasmines  wet  with  dew, 
Into  a  wide,  cool  room,  shut  in 
From  the  great  city's  whirl  and  din — 
Then,  smiling,  touched  a  heap  of  clay. 
*'  Dear  idler,  do  thy  work,  I  pray  ! 
Thy  radiant  phantom  lieth  hid 
The  mould  of  centuries  amid, 
Waiting  till  thou  shalt  bid  it  rise 
And  live  beneath  the  wondering  skies ! " 

Then  rose  a  hot  flush  to  his  cheek  ; 
His  stammering  lips  were  slow  to  speak. 
"  Hermione,"  he  said  at  length, 
As  one  who  gathers  up  his  strength, 
*'  Hermione,  my  wife,  I  go 
Far  from  thee  on  a  journey  slow 
And  long  and  perilous  ;  for  I  know 
Somewhere  upon  the  earth  there  is 
A  finer,  purer  clay  than  this. 
From  which  I'll  mould  a  shape  more  fair 
Than  ever  breathed  in  earthly  air  ! 
I  go  to  seek  it !  " 

'  *  Ah  !  "  she  said. 
With  smiling  lips,  but  tearful  eyes, 
Half  lifted  in  a  grieved  surprise, 
"  How  shall  I  then  be  comforted  ? 
Not  always  do  we  find  afar 
The  good  we  seek,  my  Valdemar  ! 
This  common,  wayside  clay  thy  hand 


332  VALDEMAK 

Hath  been  most  potent  to  command. 

Yet  I — I  will  not  bid  thee  stay. 

Go,  if  thou  must,  and  find  thy  clay  !  " 

Then  his  long  journeyings  began, 
And  still  his  hope  his  steps  outran. 
O'er  desert  sands  he  came  and  went  ; 
He  crossed  a  mighty  continent ; 
Plunged  into  forests  dark  and  lone  ; 
In  jungles  heard  the  panther's  moan  ; 
Climbed  the  far  mountains'  lofty  heights  ; 
Watched  alien  stars  through  weary  nights  ; 
While  more  than  once,  on  trackless  seas, 
His  white  sails  caught  the  eddying  breeze. 
Yet  all  his  labor  was  for  nought, 
And  never  found  he  what  he  sought, 
Or  far  or  near.     The  finer  clay 
But  mocked  his  eager  search  alway. 

Ofttimes  he  came,  with  weary  feet. 
Back  to  the  home  so  still  and  sweet 
Where  his  fair  wife,  Hermione, 
Dwelt  with  her  children  at  her  knee  ; 
But  never  once  his  eager  hand 
Thrilled  the  mute  clay  with  high  command. 
One  day  she  spoke  :  "  O  Valdemar, 
Cease  from  your  wanderings  wide  and  far  ! 
Life  is  not  long.     Why  waste  it,  then, 
Chasing  false  fires  through  marsh  and  fen  ? 
Mould  your  fair  statue  while  you  may  ; 
High  purpose  sanctifies  the  clay." 

He  answered  her,  "  My  dream  must  wait, 
Fortune  will  aid  me,  soon  or  late  ! 
Perhaps  the  clay  I  may  not  find — 


VALDEMAR  333 

But  a  strange  tale  is  in  the  wind 
Of  an  old  man  whose  life  has  been 
Shut  up  wild  solitudes  within 
On  Alpine  mountains.     He  has  found 
What  I  have  sought  the  world  around. 
A  learned,  godly  man,  he  knows 
How  the  full  tide  of  being  flows  ; 
And  he,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
Makes,  if  he  cannot  find,  the  clay. 
He  will  his  secret  share  with  me — 
I  go  to  him,  Hermione  !  " 

'*  But,  Valdemar,"  she  cried,  "  time  flies, 

And  while  you  dream,  the  vision  dies ! 

And  look  !     Our  children  suffer  lack  ; 

There  is  no  coat  for  Claudio's  back  ; 

Theresa's  little  feet,  unshod. 

Are  torn  by  shards  on  which  they  trod  ; 

And  Marcius  cried  but  yesterday 

When  the  lads  mocked  him  at  their  play. 

The  very  house  is  crumbling  down  ; 

The  broken  hearth-stone  needs  repair  ; 

The  roof  is  open  to  the  air — 

It  wakes  the  laughter  of  the  town  ! 

O  Valdemar  !  if  you  must  go 

Up  to  those  trackless  fields  of  snow. 

Mould  first  from  yonder  common  clay 

Something  to  keep  the  wolf  away — 

A  Virgin  for  some  humble  shrine, 

A  soldier  clad  in  armor  fine. 

Or  even  such  toys  as  Andrefels 

To  laughing,  wondering  children  sells." 

**  Now  murmur  not,  Hermione, 
But  be  thou  patient,"  answered  he. 


334  VALDEMAR 

**  Why  mind  the  laughter  of  the  town  ? 
It  cannot  shake  my  fair  renown  ! 
A  touch  of  hardship,  now  and  then, 
Will  never  harm  our  little  men  ; 
And  as  for  this  old,  crumbling  roof, 
Let  rude  winds  put  it  to  the  proof. 
And  fierce  heats  gnaw  the  hearth-stone  !     I 
Surely  the  Land  of  Promise  spy. 
Where  the  fair  vision  of  my  dreams. 
Clothed  in  transcendent  beauty,  gleams  ! 
In  its  white  hand  it  holdeth  up 
For  us,  my  love,  a  brimming  cup 
Where  wealth  and  fame  and  joy  divine 
Mingle  in  life's  most  sparkling  wine. 
Bid  me  God-speed,  Hermione, 
And  kiss  me,  ere  I  go  from  thee  !  " 

So  on  he  sped,  from  day  to  day — 
Past  wheat- fields  yellowing  in  the  sun, 
Where  scarlet-coated  poppies  run. 
Gay  soldiers  ready  for  the  fray — 
Past  vineyards  purpling  on  the  hills. 
Past  sleeping  lakes  and  dancing  rills, 
And  homes  like  dovecotes  nestling  high 
Midway  between  the  earth  and  sky  ! 
Then  on  he  passed  through  valleys  dim 
Crowded  with  shadows  gaunt  and  grim. 
Up  towering  heights  whence  glaciers  launch 
Their  swift-winged  ships  for  seaward  flight, 
Or  where,  dread  messenger  of  fright. 
Sweeps  down  the  awful  avalanche  ! 
And  still  upon  the  mountain  side 
To  every  man  he  met  he  cried, 
"  Where  shall  I  find,  oh!  tell  me  where, 
The  hermit  of  this  upper  air. 


VALDEMAR  335 

Who  Nature's  inmost  secret  knows  ?  " 
And,  pointing  to  the  eternal  snows, 
Each  man  replied,  with  wagging  head, 
*'  Up  yonder,  somewhere,  it  is  said." 

At  length  one  day,  as  sank  the  sun, 
He  reached  a  low  hut,  dark  and  dun, 
And,  entering  unbidden,  found 
An  old  man  stretched  upon  the  ground  : 
A  white-haired,  venerable  man. 
Whose  eyes  had  hardly  light  to  scan 
The  face  that,  blanched  with  awful  fear, 
Bent  down,  his  failing  breath  to  hear. 
*'  Paxvobiscum"  he  murmured  low, 
"  Shrive  me,  O  brother,  ere  I  go  ! " 

*'  No  priest  am  I,"  cried  Valdemar. 
''  Alas  !  alas  !  I  came  from  far 
To  learn  thy  secret  of  the  clay — 
Speak  to  me,  sire,  while  yet  you  may  !  " 
But  while  he  wet  the  parched  lips. 
The  dull  eyes  closed  in  death's  eclipse  ; 
And  the  old  seer  in  silence  lay, 
Himself  a  thing  of  pallid  clay. 
With  all  his  secrets  closely  hid 
As  Ramses'  in  the  pyramid. 

Long  time  within  that  lonely  place 
Valdemar  lived,  but  found  no  trace 
In  learned  book  or  parchment  scroll 
(The  ink  scarce  dry  upon  the  roll) 
Of  aught  the  stars  had  taught  to  him. 
Within  the  wide  horizon's  rim. 
Nor  earth,  nor  sky,  nor  winds  at  play, 
Knew  the  lost  secret  of  the  clay. 


336  VALDEMAR 

Then  sought  he,  after  journeyings  hard, 
The  holy  monks  of  St.  Bernard. 
But  they — ah,  yes  ! — they  knew  him  well, 
A  man  not  ruled  by  book  and  bell. 
Godly,  perhaps — but  much  inclined 
Some  newer  road  to  heaven  to  find. 
And  was  he  dead  ?     God  rest  his  soul, 
After  this  life  of  toil  and  dole  ! 

And  that  was  all !     O  Valdemar  ! 
Fly  to  thy  desolate  home  afar, 
Where  wasted,  worn,  Hermione, 
With  her  pale  children  at  her  knee. 
Beside  the  broken  hearth-stone  weeps  ! 

He  finds  her,  smiling  as  she  sleeps, 
For  night  more  tender  is  than  day, 
And  softly  wipes  our  tears  away. 
*'  Oh,  wake,  Hermione  !  "  he  cries, 
As  one  whose  spirit  inly  dies  ; 
**  Hear  me  confess  that  I  have  been 
False  to  thee  in  my  pride  and  sin  ! 
God  give  me  grace  from  this  blest  day 
To  do  His  work  in  common  clay  ! " 

Next  morn,  in  humble,  sweet  content, 

Into  his  studio  he  went, 

Eager  to  test  his  willing  hand, 

And  rule  the  clay  with  wise  command. 

But  no  fair  wonder  first  he  wrought. 

No  marvel  of  creative  thought, 

Not  even  a  Virgin  for  a  shrine, 

Or  soldier  clad  in  armor  fine — 

Only  such  toys  as  Andrefels 

To  laughing,  wondering  children  sells ! 


VALDEMAR  337 

One  day  he  knelt  him  gravely  down 
Beside  the  hearth-stone,  rent  and  brown. 
**  And  now,  my  patient  wife,"  said  he, 
**  What  can  be  done  with  this,  we'll  see." 
With  straining  arm  and  crimsoned  face 
He  pried  the  mortar  from  its  place. 
Lifted  the  heavy  stone  aside, 
And  left  a  cavern  yawning  wide. 
Oh,  wondrous  tale  !     At  set  of  sun 
The  guerdon  of  his  search  was  won  ; 
And  where  his  broken  hearth-stone  lay 
He  found  at  last  the  perfect  clay  ! 


JUBILATE ! 

Jubilate  !    Jubilate  ! 

Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day  ! 

Hear  the  mighty  chorus  swelling 

Over  land  and  over  sea  ! 

River  calls  aloud  to  river, 

Mountain  peak  to  mountain  peak — 

Jubilate  !  Jubilate ! 

Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day  ! 

Waken,  roses,  from  your  slumbers  ! 
Lilies,  wake — for  he  is  near  ! 
Happy  bells  in  wild-wood  arches. 
Ring  and  swing  in  sweet  accord  ! 
Lift  your  voices,  O  ye  maples, 
Sing  aloud,  ye  stately  pines, 
Jubilate  !  Jubilate ! 
Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day ! 

O  thou  goddess  of  the  springtime, 
Fair  Ostera,  thou  art  dead  ! 
Never  more  shall  priests  and  vestals 
Weave  fresh  garlands  for  thy  shrine 
But  the  happy  voices  ringing 
Over  land  and  over  sea, 
Swell  the  mighty  jubilate — 
"  Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day  !  " 


EASTER    LILIES 

O  YE  dear  and  blessed  ones  who  are  done  with  sighing, 

Do  the  Easter  Lilies  blow  for  you  to-day  ? 
Do  the  shining  angels,  through  Heaven's  arches  flying, 

Bear  the  snow-white  blossoms  on  your  breasts  to  lay? 

For  we  cannot  reach  you,  O  our  well  beloved — 
Nothing  can  we  do  for  you  save  to  hold  you  dear  ; 

From  our  close  embraces  ye  are  far  removed. 
And  our  empty  yearnings  cannot  bring  you  near. 

Once  on  Easter  mornings  glad  we  gave  you  greeting — 
Gave  you  fair  flowers,  singing,  "  Christ  is  risen  to-day  ! ' 

Hands  were  clasped  together,  hearts  and  lips  were  meeting- 
Earth  and  we  together  sang  a  roundelay  ! 

Now — yet  why  repine  we  ? — ye  are  done  with  sorrow  ; 

Life  and  Lent  are  over,  with  their  prayers  and  tears  ; 
After  night  of  watching  came  the  glad  to-morrow, 

Came  the  blessed  sunshine  of  the  eternal  years. 

Surely  in  Jerusalem,  where  the  Lord  Christ  reigneth. 
Ye  with  saints  and  martyrs  keep  this  festal  day — 

And  the  holy  angels,  ere  its  glory  waneth. 

Heaven's  own  Easter  Lilies  on  your  breasts  shall  lay ! 


*'0  WIND    THAT   BLOWS   OUT  OF  THE  WEST" 


O  WIND  that  blows  out  of  the  West, 

Thou  hast  swept  over  mountain  and  sea, 
Dost  thou  bear  on  thy  swift,  glad  wings 

The  breath  of  my  love  to  me  ? 
Hast  thou  kissed  her  warm,  sweet  lips  ? 

Or  tangled  her  soft  brown  hair  ? 
Or  fluttered  the  fragrant  heart 

Of  the  rose  she  loves  to  wear? 

O  sun  that  goes  down  in  the  West, 

Hast  thou  seen  my  love  to-day, 
As  she  sits  in  her  beautiful  prime 

Under  skies  so  far  away  ? 
Hast  thou  gilded  a  path  for  her  feet, 

Or  deepened  the  glow  on  her  cheeks, 
Or  bent  from  the  skies  to  hear 

The  low,  sweet  words  she  speaks  ? 

O  stars  that  are  bright  in  the  West 

When  the  hush  of  the  night  is  deep, 
Do  ye  see  my  love  as  she  lies 

Like  a  chaste,  white  flower  asleep  ? 
Does  she  smile  as  she  walks  with  me 

In  the  light  of  a  happy  dream. 
While  the  night  winds  rustle  the  leaves, 

And  the  light  waves  ripple  and  gleam  ? 


**  O  WIND  THAT  BLOWS  OUT  OF  THE  WEST  "    341 

O  birds  that  fly  out  of  the  West, 

Do  ye  bring  me  a  message  from  her, 
As  sweet  as  your  love-notes  are, 

When  the  warm  spring  breezes  stir  ? 
Did  she  whisper  a  word  of  me 

As  your  tremulous  wings  swept  by, 
Or  utter  my  name,  mayhap, 

In  a  single  passionate  cry  ? 

O  voices  out  of  the  West, 

Ye  are  silent  every  one. 
And  never  an  answer  comes 

From  wind,  or  stars,  or  sun  ! 
And  the  blithe  birds  come  and  go 

Through  the  boundless  fields  of  space, 
As  reckless  of  human  prayers 

As  if  earth  were  a  desert  place  ! 


A   SUMMER    SONG 

Roly-poly  honey-bee, 

Humming  in  the  clover, 
Under  you  the  tossing  leaves, 

And  the  blue  sky  over, 
Why  are  you  so  busy,  pray  ? 

Never  still  a  minute, 
Hovering  now  above  a  flower, 

Now  half-buried  in  it ! 

Jaunty  robin-redbreast, 

Singing  loud  and  cheerly, 
From  the  pink-white  apple  tree 

In  the  morning  early. 
Tell  me,  is  your  merry  song 

Just  for  your  own  pleasure, 
Poured  from  such  a  tiny  throat, 

Without  stint  or  measure  ? 

Little  yellow  buttercup, 

By  the  way-side  smiling, 
Lifting  up  your  happy  face. 

With  such  sweet  beguiling, 
Why  are  you  so  gayly  clad— 

Cloth  of  gold  your  raiment  ? 
Do  the  sunshine  and  the  dew 

Look  to  you  for  payment  ? 


A   SUMMER   SONG  343 

Roses  in  the  garden  beds, 

Lilies,  cool  and  saintly, 
Darling  blue-eyed  violets, 

Pansies,  hooded  quaintly, 
Sweet-peas  that,  like  butterflies, 

Dance  the  bright  skies  under, 
Bloom  ye  for  your  own  delight, 

Or  for  ours,  I  wonder ! 


THE    URN 

Across  the  blue  Atlantic  waves 

She  sent  a  little  gift  to  me  : 
A  golden  urn — a  graceful  toy 

As  one  need  care  to  see. 

Smiling,  I  held  it  in  my  hand, 

Thinking  her  message  o'er  and  o'er, 

Nor  dreamed  her  swift  feet  pressed  so  near 
The  undiscovered  shore. 

Oh  !  had  it  been  a  funeral  urn — 
The  gift  my  darling  sent  to  me 

With  loving  thoughts  and  tender  words 
Across  the  heaving  sea — 

A  funeral  urn  which  might  have  held 
Her  sacred  ashes,  sealed  in  rest 

Utter  as  that  which  holds  in  thrall 
Some  pulseless  marble  breast ! 

Where  drifts  she  now  ?     On  what  far  seas 
Floateth  to-day  her  golden  hair  ? 

What  stars  behold  her  pale  hands,  clasped 
In  ecstasy  of  prayer  ? 

Forever  in  this  thought  of  mine, 

Like  the  fair  Lady  of  Shalott, 
She  drifteth,  drifteth  with  the  tide, 

But  never  comes  to  Camelot ! 


THE  PARSON'S  DAUGHTER 

**  What,  ho  !  "  he  cried,  as  up  and  down 

He  rode  through  the  streets  of  Windham  town — 

"  What,  ho  !  for  the  day  of  peace  is  done, 

And  the  day  of  wrath  too  well  begun  ! 

Bring  forth  the  grain  from  your  barns  and  mills  ; 

Drive  down  the  cattle  from  off  your  hills  ; 

For  Boston  lieth  in  sore  distress, 

Pallid  with  hunger  and  long  duress  : 

Her  children  starve,  while  she  hears  the  beat 

And  the  tramp  of  the  red-coats  in  every  street !  " 

"  What,  ho  !     What,  ho  !  "     Like  a  storm  unspent. 
Over  the  hill-sides  he  came  and  went ; 
And  Parson  White,  from  his  open  door 
Leaning  bareheaded  that  August  day, 
While  the  sun  beat  down  on  his  temples  gray, 
Watched  him  until  he  could  see  no  more. 
Then  straight  he  strode  to  the  church,  and  flung 
His  whole  soul  into  the  peal  he  rung  ; 
Pulling  the  bell-rope  till  the  tower 
Seemed  to  rock  in  the  sudden  shower — 

The  shower  of  sound  the  farmers  heard, 

Rending  the  air  like  a  living  word  ! 

Then  swift  they  gathered  with  right  good-will 

From  field  and  anvil  and  shop  and  mill. 

To  hear  what  the  parson  had  to  say 

That  would  not  keep  till  the  Sabbath-day. 


346  THE   PARSON'S   DAUGHTER 

For  only  the  women  and  children  knew 

The  tale  of  the  horsemen  galloping  through— 

The  message  he  bore  as  up  and  down 

He  rode  through  the  streets  of  Windham  town. 

That  night,  as  the  parson  sat  at  ease 

In  the  porch,  with  his  Bible  on  his  knees, 

(Thanking  God  that  at  break  of  day 

Frederic  Manning  would  take  his  way, 

With  cattle  and  sheep  from  off  the  hills, 

And  a  load  of  grain  from  the  barns  and  mills, 

To  the  starving  city  where  General  Gage 

Waited  unholy  war  to  wage), 

His  little  daughter  beside  him  stood, 

Hiding  her  face  in  her  muslin  hood. 

In  her  arms  her  own  pet  lamb  she  bore, 

As  it  struggled  down  to  the  oaken  floor  : 

*'  It  must  go  ;  I  must  give  my  lamb,"  she  said, 

"  To  the  children  that  cry  for  meat  and  bread," 

Then  lifted  to  his  her  holy  eyes. 

Wet  with  the  tears  of  sacrifice. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  he  answered.     "  There  is  no  need 

That  the  hearts  of  babes  should  ache  and  bleed. 

Run  away  to  your  bed,  and  to-morrow  play, 

You  and  your  pet,  through  the  livelong  day." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shining  hair. 

And  smiled  as  he  blessed  her,  standing  there, 

With  kerchief  folded  across  her  breast. 

And  her  small  brown  hands  together  pressed, 

A  quaint  little  maiden,  shy  and  sweet, 

With  her  lambkin  crouched  at  her  dainty  feet. 

Away  to  its  place  the  lamb  she  led. 

Then  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  own  white  bed, 


THE   PARSON'S   DAUGHTER  347 

While  the  moon  rose  up  and  the  stars  looked  down 
On  the  silent  streets  of  Windham  town. 

But  when  the  heralds  of  morning  came, 
Flushing  the  east  with  rosy  flame, 
With  low  of  cattle  and  scurry  of  feet, 
Driving  his  herd  down  the  village  street. 
Young  Manning  heard  from  a  low  stone  wall 
A  child's  voice  clearly  yet  softly  call  ; 
And  saw  in  the  gray  dusk  standing  there 
A  little  maiden  with  shining  hair, 
While  crowding  close  to  her  tender  side 
Was  a  snow-white  lamb  to  her  apron  tied. 

*'  Oh,  wait!  "  she  cried,  "  for  my  lamb  must  go 
To  the  children  crying  in  want  and  woe. 
It  is  all  I  have."     And  her  tears  fell  fast 
As  she  gave  it  one  eager  kiss — the  last. 
"  The  road  will  be  long  to  its  feet.     I  pray 
Let  your  arms  be  its  bed  a  part  of  the  way  ; 
And  give  it  cool  water  and  tender  grass 
Whenever  a  way-side  brook  you  pass." 
Then  away  she  flew  like  a  startled  deer. 
Nor  waited^  the  bleat  of  her  lamb  to  hear. 

Young  Manning  lifted  his  steel-blue  eyes 

One  moment  up  to  the  morning  skies  ; 

Then,  raising  the  lamb  to  his  breast,  he  strode 

Sturdily  down  the  lengthening  road. 

"  Now  God  be  my  helper,"  he  cried,  *'  and  lead 

Me  safe  with  my  charge  to  the  souls  in  need  ! 

Through  fire  and  flood,  through  dearth  and  dole, 

Though  foes  assail  me  and  war-clouds  roll, 

To  the  city  in  want  and  woe  that  lies 

I  will  bear  this  lamb  as  a  sacrifice." 


MARCH    FOURTH 

1881-1882 

One  year  ago  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd, 
The  drum's  long  thunder  and  the  bugle's  blare, 

The  bell's  gay  clamor,  pealing  clear  and  loud, 
And  rapturous  music  filling  all  the  air  ; 

One  year  ago,  on  roofs  and  domes  and  spires, 
Ten  thousand  banners  bursting  into  bloom 

As  the  proud  day  advanced  its  golden  fires, 
And  all  the  crowding  centuries  gave  it  room  ; 

One  year  ago  the  laurel  and  the  palm. 

The  upward  path,  the  height  undimmed  and  far, 

And  in  the  clear,  strong  light,  serene  and  calm. 
One  high,  pure  spirit,  shining  like  a  star ! 

To-day — for  loud  acclaims  the  long  lament ; 

For  shouts  of  triumph,  tears  that  fall  like  rain  ; 

A  world  remembering,  with  anguish  rent. 
Thy  long,  unmurmuring  martyrdom  of  pain  ! 

The  year  moves  on  ;  the  seasons  come  and  go  ; 

Day  follows  day,  and  pale  stars  rise  and  set ; 
Oh  !  in  yon  radiant  heaven  dost  thou  know 

The  land  that  loved  thee  never  can  forget  ? 


MARCH  FOURTH  349 

It  doth  not  swerve — it  keeps  its  onward  way, 
Unfaltering  still,  from  farthest  sea  to  sea  ; 

Yet,  while  it  owns  another's  rightful  sway, 

It  patient  grows  and  strong,  remembering  thee  ! 


ROY 

Our  Prince  has  gone  to  his  inheritance  ! 

Think  it  not  strange.     What  if,  with  slight  half-smile, 
Some  crowned  king  to  leave  his  throne  should  chance, 

And  try  the  rough  ways  of  the  world  awhile  ? 

Ere  he  had  wearied  of  its  storm  and  stress, 

Would  he  not  hasten  to  his  own  again  ? 
Why  should  he  bear  its  labor  and  duress. 

And  all  the  untold  burden  of  its  pain  ? 

Or  what  if  from  the  golden  palace  gate 

The  king's  fair  son  on  some  bright  morn  should  stray  ? 
Would  he  not  send  his  lords  of  high  estate 

To  lead  him  back  ere  fell  the  close  of  day  ? 

Even  so  our  King  from  Heaven's  high  portals  saw 

The  fair  young  Prince  where  earth's  dull  shades  advance, 

And  sent  his  messengers  of  love  and  law 
To  bear  him  home  to  his  inheritance  ! 


THE   PAINTER'S   PRAYER 

**  NEC    ME    PR^TERMITTAS,    DOMINE  !  " 

(An   incident   in  the  painting  of   Holman   Hunt's   "Light  of   the 
World.") 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  done  ! 
At  to-morrow's  set  of  sun 
Come  again,  if  you  would  see 
What  the  finished  thought  may  be." 
Straight  they  went.     The  heavy  door 
On  its  hinges  swung  once  more, 
As  within  the  studio  dim 
Eye  and  heart  took  heed  of  Him  ! 

How  the  Presence  filled  the  room, 
Brightening  all  its  dusky  gloom  ! 
Saints  and  martyrs  turned  their  eyes 
From  the  hills  of  Paradise  ; 
Rapt  in  holy  ecstasy, 
Mary  smiled  her  Son  to  see, 
Letting  all  her  lilies  fall 
At  His  feet— the  Lord  of  all ! 

But  the  painter  bowed  his  head, 
Lost  in  wonder  and  in  dread, 
And  as  at  a  holy  shrine 
Knelt  before  the  form  divine. 


352  THE  PAINTER  S   PRAYER 

All  had  passed — the  pride,  the  power, 
Of  the  soul's  creative  hour — 
Exaltation's  soaring  flight 
To  the  spirit's  loftiest  height. 

Had  he  dared  to  paint  the  Lord  ? 
Dared  to  paint  the  Christ,  the  Word  ? 
Ah,  the  folly  !     Ah,  the  sin  ! 
Ah,  the  shame  his  soul  within  ! 
Saints  might  turn  on  him  their  eyes 
From  the  hills  of  Paradise, 
But  the  painter  could  not  brook 
On  that  pictured  face  to  look. 

Yet  the  form  was  grand  and  fair, 
Fit  to  move  a  world  to  prayer  ; 
God-like  in  its  strength  and  stress, 
Human  in  its  tenderness. 
From  it  streamed  the  Light  divine, 
O'er  it  drooped  the  heavenly  vine. 
And  beneath  the  bending  spray 
Stood  the  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way  I 

Suddenly  with  eager  hold, 
Back  he  swept  the  curtain's  fold. 
Letting  all  the  sunset  glow 
O'er  the  living  canvas  flow. 
Surely  then  the  wondrous  eyes 
Met  his  own  in  tenderest  wise, 
And  the  Lord  Christ,  half  revealed, 
Smiled  upon  him  as  he  kneeled  ! 

Trembling,  throbbing,  quick  as  thought, 
Up  he  brush  and  palette  caught, 
And  where  deepest  shade  was  thrown 


THE   PAINTER'S   PRAYER  353 

Set  one  sign  for  God  alone  ! 
Years  have  passed— but,  even  yet, 
Where  the  massive  frame  is  set 
You  may  find  these  words  :  **  Nee  me 
Prcetermittas ,  Domine  I  " 

**  Neither  pass  me  by,  O  Lord  ! " 
Christ,  the  Life,  the  Light,  the  Word, 
Low  we  bow  before  thy  feet, 
Thy  remembrance  to  entreat  ! 
In  our  soul's  most  secret  place. 
For  no  eye  but  thine  to  trace, 
Lo  !  this  prayer  we  write  :  "  Nee  me 
PrcetermittaSf  Domine  /  " 


FROM    EXILE 
Paris,  September  3,  1879 

(A  Mother  speaks) 

Ah,  dear  God,  when  will  it  be  day  ? 
I  cannot  sleep,  I  cannot  pray. 
Tossing,  I  watcli  the  silent  stars 
Mount  up  from  the  horizon  bars  : 
Orion  with  his  flaming  sword. 
Proud  chieftain  of  the  glorious  horde  ; 
Auriga  up  the  lofty  arch 
Pursuing  still  his  stately  march — 
So  patient  and  so  calm  are  they. 
Ah,  dear  God  !  when  will  it  be  day  ? 

O  Mary,  Mother  !     Hark  !  I  hear 

A  cock  crow  through  the  silence  clear ! 

The  dawn's  faint  crimson  streaks  the  east, 

And,  afar  off,  I  catch  the  least 

Low  murmur  of  the  city's  stir 

As  she  shakes  off  the  dreams  of  her  ! 

List !  there's  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet 

Far  down  below  me  in  the  street. 

Thank  God !  the  weary  night  is  past, 

The  morning  comes — 'tis  day  at  last. 

Wake,  Rosalie  !     Awake  !  arise  ! 

The  sun  is  up,  it  gilds  the  skies. 

She  does  not  stir.     The  young  sleep  sound 


FROM    EXILE  355 

As  dead  men  in  their  graves  profound. 
Ho,  Rosalie  !     At  last  ?     Now  haste  ! 
To-day  there  is  no  time  to  waste. 
Bring  me  fresh  water.     Braid  my  hair. 
Hand  me  the  glass.     Once  I  was  fair 
As  thou  art.     Now  I  look  so  old 
It  seems  my  death-knell  should  be  tolled. 

Ill  ?     No  !     (I  want  no  wine.)     So  pale  ? 
Like  a  white  ghost,  so  wan  and  frail  ? 
Well,  that's  not  strange.     All  night  I  lay 
Waiting  and  watching  for  the  day. 
But — there  !  I'll  drink  it ;  it  may  make 
My  cheeks  burn  brighter  for  his  sake 
Who  comes  to-day.     My  boy  !  my  boy ! 
How  can  I  bear  the  unwonted  joy? 
I,  who  for  eight  long  years  have  wept 
While  happier  mothers  smiling  slept  ; 
While  others  decked  their  sons  first-born 
For  dance,  or  f6te,  or  bridal  morn. 
Or  proudly  smiled  to  see  them  stand 
The  stateliest  pillars  of  the  land  ! 
For  he,  so  gallant  and  so  gay. 
As  young  and  debonair  as  they. 
My  beautiful,  brave  boy,  my  life, 
Went  down  in  the  unequal  strife  ! 
The  right  or  wrong  ?     Oh,  what  care  I  ? 
The  good  God  judge th  up  on  high. 

And  now  He  gives  him  back  to  me  ! 
I  tremble  so — I  scarce  can  see. 
How  full  the  streets  are  !     I  will  wait 
His  coming  here  beside  this  gate, 
From  which  I  watched  him  as  he  went. 
Eight  years  ago,  to  banishment. 


356  FROM    EXILE 

Let  me  sit  down.     Speak,  Rosalie,  when 

You  see  a  band  of  stalwart  men, 

With  one  fair  boy  among  them— one 

With  bright  hair  shining  in  the  sun, 

Red,  smiUng  Hps,  and  eager  eyes. 

Blue  as  the  blue  of  summer  skies. 

My  boy  !  my  boy  ! — Why  come  they  not  ? 

O  Son  of  God  !  hast  Thou  forgot 

Thy  Mother's  agony  ?     Yet  she, 

Was  she  not  stronger  far  than  we, 

We  common  mothers  ?     Could  she  know 

From  her  far  heights  such  pain  and  woe  ? — 

Run  farther  down  the  street,  and  see 

If  they're  not  coming,  Rosalie  ! 

Mother  of  Christ !  how  lag  the  hours  ! 
What  ?  just  beyond  the  convent  towers, 
And  coming  straight  this  way  ?     O  heart, 
Be  still  and  strong,  and  bear  thy  part, 
Thy  new  part,  bravely.     Hark  !  1  hear 
Above  the  city's  hum  the  near 
Slow  tread  of  marching  feet ;  I  see — 
Nay,  I  can  not  see,  Rosalie  ; 
Your  eyes  are  younger.     Is  he  there. 
My  Antoine,  with  his  sunny  hair  ? 
It  is  like  gold  ;  it  shines  in  the  sun  : 
Surely  you  see  it  ?     What  ?     Not  one — 
Not  one  bright  head  ?     All  old,  old  men, 
Gray-haired,  gray-bearded,  gaunt?    Then — then 
He  has  not  come — he  is  ill,  or  dead  ! 
O  God,  that  I  were  in  thy  stead, 

My  son  !  my  son  !     Who  touches  me  ? 
Your  pardon,  sir.     I  am  not  she 
For  whom  you  look.     Go  farther  on 
Ere  yet  the  daylight  shall  be  gone. 


FROM   EXILE  357 

*  Mother  ! '      Who  calls  me    *  Mother  ?  '      Vou  ? 
You  are  not  he — my  Antoine  !     You — 
A  bowed,  gray-bearded  man,  while  he 
Was  a  mere  boy  who  went  from  me, 
Only  a  boy !     I'm  sorry,  sir. 
God  bless  you  !     Soon  you  will  find  her 
For  whom  you  seek.     But  I — ah,  I — 
Still  must  I  call  and  none  reply ! 
You — kiss  me  ?     Antoine  ?     O  my  son  ! 
Thou  art  mine  own,  my  banished  one  I 


A    MOTHER-SONG 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  !     The  Christmas  stars  are  shining. 
Clear  and  bright  the  Christmas  stars  climb  up  the  vaulted 
sky; 

Low  hangs  the  pale  moon,  in  the  west  declining  : 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep,  the  Christmas  morn  is  nigh  ! 

Hush,  baby,  hush  !     For  Earth  her  Avatch  is  keeping  ; 

Watches  and  waits  she  the  angels'  song  to  hear  ; 
Listening  for  the  swift  rush  of  their  wings  downsweeping, 

Joy  and  Peace  proclaiming  through  the  midnight  clear. 

Dream,  baby,  dream  !     The  far-off  chimes  are  ringing  ; 

Tenderly  and  solemnly  the  music  soars  and  swells ; 
With  soft  reverberation  the  happy  bells  are  swinging, 

While  each  to  each  responsive  the  same  sweet  story  tells  ! 

Hark,  baby,  hark  !     Hear  how  the  choral  voices, 
All  jubilantly  singing,  take  up  the  glad  refrain, 

"  Unto  you  is  born  a  Saviour,"  while   heaven    with    earth 
rejoices, 
And  all  its  lofty  battlements  re-echo  with  the  strain  ! 

Wake,  baby,  wake  !     For,  lo  !  in  floods  of  glory 

The  Christmas  Day  advances  over  the  hills  of  morn  I 

Wake,  baby,  wake  !  and  smile  to  hear  the  story 

How  Christ,  the  Son  of  Mary,  in  Bethlehem  was  born ! 


EASTER    MORNING 

Dame  Margaret  spake  to  Annie  Blair, 

To  Annie  Blair  spake  she, 
As  from  beneath  her  wrinkled  hand 

She  peered  far  out  to  sea. 

"  Look  forth,  look  forth,  O  Annie  Blair, 

For  my  old  eyes  are  dim  ; 
See  you  a  single  boat  afloat 

Within  the  horizon's  rim  ?  " 

Sweet  Annie  looked  to  east,  to  west. 
To  north  and  south  looked  she  : 

There  was  no  single  boat  afloat 
Upon  the  angry  sea. 

The  sky  was  dark,  the  winds  were  high, 
The  breakers  lashed  the  shore. 

And  louder  and  still  louder  swelled 
The  tempest's  sullen  roar. 

*'  Look  forth  again,"  Dame  Margaret  cried  ; 

'*  Doth  any  boat  come  in  ?  " 
And  scarce  she  heard  the  answering  word 

Above  the  furious  din. 

**  Pray  God  no  boat  may  put  to  sea 

In  such  a  gale  !  "  she  said  ; 
*'  Pray  God  no  soul  may  dare  to-night 

The  rocks  of  Danger  Head  !  " 


360  EASTER   MORNING 

"  This  is  Good  Friday,  Annie  Blair," 

Dame  Margaret  cried  again, 
"  When  Mary's  Son,  the  Merciful, 

On  Calvary  was  slain. 

"  The  earth  did  quake,  the  rocks  were  rent, 
The  graves  were  opened  wide. 

And  darkness  like  to  this  fell  down 
When  He— the  Holy— died. 

**  Give  me  your  hand,  O  Annie  Blair  ; 

Your  two  knees  fall  upon  ; 
Christ  send  to  you  your  lover  back — 

To  me,  my  only  son  !  " 

All  night  they  watched,  all  night  they  prayed, 

All  night  they  heard  the  roar 
Of  the  fierce  breakers  dashing  high 

Upon  the  lonely  shore. 

Oh,  hark !  strange  footsteps  on  the  sand, 

A  voice  above  the  din  : 
**  Dame  Margaret !  Dame  Margaret  I 

Is  Annie  Blair  within  ? 

"  High  on  the  rocks  of  Danger  Head 

Her  lover's  boat  is  cast, 
All  rudderless,  all  anchorless — 

Mere  hull  and  splintered  mast." 

Oh,  hark  !  slow  footsteps  on  the  sand, 

And  women  wailing  sore  : 
"  Dame  Margaret !  Dame  Margaret ! 

Your  son  you'll  see  no  more  I 


EASTER   MORNING  361 

'*  God  pity  you  !  Christ  comfort  you! " 

The  weeping  women  cried  ; 
But  ''  May  God  pity  Annie  Blair !  " 

Dame  Margaret  replied. 

'*  For  life  is  long  and  youth  is  strong, 

And  it  must  still  bear  on. 
Leave  us  alone  to  make  our  moan — 

My  son  !  alas,  my  son  ! " 


The  Easter  morning,  flushed  with  joy, 

Saw  all  the  winds  at  rest, 
And  far  and  near  the  blue  sea  smiled 

With  sunshine  on  its  breast. 

The  neighbors  came,  the  neighbors  went ; 

They  sought  the  house  of  prayer  ; 
But  on  the  rocks  of  Danger  Head 

The  dame  and  Annie  Blair, 

With  still,  white  faces,  watched  the  deep 

Without  a  tear  or  moan. 
**  I  cannot  weep,"  said  Annie  Blair — 

*'  My  heart  is  turned  to  stone." 

Forth  from  the  church  the  pastor  came, 

And  up  the  rocks  strode  he, 
Baring  his  thin  white  locks  to  meet 

The  salt  breath  of  the  sea. 

**  The  rocks  shall  rend,  the  earth  shall  quake, 

The  sea  give  up  its  dead, 
For  Christ  our  Lord  is  risen  indeed — 

'Tis  Easter  morn,"  he  said. 


362  EASTER   MORNING 

Oh,  hark!  oh,  hark!     A  startled  cry, 

A  rush  of  hurrying  feet, 
The  swarming  of  a  hundred  men 

Adown  the  village  street. 

"  Now  unto  God  and  Christ  the  Lord 
Be  praise  and  thanks  alway  ! 

The  sea  hath  given  up  its  dead 
This  blessed  Easter-day." 


SEALED   ORDERS 

**  Oh,  whither  bound,  my  captain  ? 

The  wind  is  blowing  free, 
And  overhead  the  white  sails  spread 

As  we  go  out  to  sea." 

He  looked  to  north,  he  looked  to  south, 

Or  ever  a  word  he  spake  ; 
**With  orders  sealed  my  sails  I  set — 

Due  east  my  course  I  take." 

"  But  to  what  port  ?  "  "  Nay,  nay,"  he  cried, 

*'  This  only  do  I  know, 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

Whatever  wind  may  blow." 

For  many  a  day  we  sailed  east. 

"  O  captain,  tell  me  true, 
When  will  our  good  ship  come  to  port  ?" 

"  I  cannot  answer  you  !" 

**  Then,  prithee,  gallant  captain. 

Let  us  but  drift  awhile  ! 
The  current  setteth  southward 

Past  many  a  sunny  isle, 

**  Where  cocoas  grow,  and  mangoes, 

And  groves  of  feathery  palm, 
And  nightingales  sing  all  night  long 

To  roses  breathing  balm." 


364  SEALED    ORDERS 

*'  Nay,  tempt  mc  not,"  he  answered, 

"  This  only  do  I  know, 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

Whatever  winds  may  blow  !  " 

Then  sailed  we  on,  and  sailed  we  east 
Into  the  whirlwind's  track. 

Wild  was  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  sea  was  strewn  with  wrack. 

"  Oh,  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  captain, 
Thou'rt  rushing  on  to  death  !  " 

But  back  he  answer  shouted, 
With  unabated  breath  : 

*'  Turn  back  who  will,  I  turn  not ! 

For  this  one  thing  I  know, 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

However  winds  may  blow  !  " 

"  Oh,  art  thou  fool  or  madman  ? 

Thy  port  is  but  a  dream. 
And  never  on  the  horizon's  rim 

Will  its  fair  turrets  gleam." 

Then  smiled  the  captain  wisely. 
And  slowly  answered  he. 

The  while  his  keen  glance  widened 
Over  the  lonely  sea  : 

"  I  carry  sealed  orders. 

This  only  thing  I  know. 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

Whatever  winds  may  blow  !  " 


AN   ANNIVERSARY 

So  long,  so  short, 

So  swift,  so  slow, 
Are  the  years  of  man 

As  they  come  a?id go  / 

O  LOVE,  it  was  so  long  ago  ! 

So  long,  so  long  that  we  were  young, 
And  in  the  cloisters  of  our  hearts 

Hope  all  her  joy-bells  rung  ! 
So  long,  so  long  that  since  that  hour 

Fulf  half  a  lifetime  hath  gone  by — 
How  ran  the  days  ere  first  we  met, 

Beloved,  thou  and  I  ? 

We  had  our  dreams,  no  doubt.     The  dawn 

Must  still  presage  the  rising  sun. 
And  rose  and  crimson  flush  the  east 

Ere  day  is  well  begun. 
We  had  our  dreams — fair,  shadowy  wraiths 

That  fled  when  Day's  full  splendor  kissed 
Our  souls'  high  places,  and  its  winds 

Swept  the  vales  clear  of  mist ! 

So  long,  so  short. 

So  swift,  so  slow, 
Are  the  years  of  man 

As  they  come  and  go  / 


366  AN   ANNIVERSARY 

O  love,  it  was  but  yesterday  ! 

Who  said  it  was  so  long  ago  ? 
How  many  times  the  rose  hath  bloomed, 

Why  should  we  care  to  know  ? 
For  it  was  just  as  sweet  last  June, 

As  dewy  fresh,  as  fair,  as  red, 
As  when  our  first  glad  Eden  knew 

The  rare  perfumes  it  shed  ! 

O  love,  it  was  but  yesterday  ! 

If  yesterday  is  far  away, 
As  brightly  on  the  hill-tops  lies 

The  sunshine  of  to-day. 
Sing  thou,  my  soul !     O  heart,  be  glad  ! 

O  circling  years,  fly  swift  or  slow  ! 
Your  ripening  harvests  shall  not  fail, 

Nor  autumn's  utmost  glow. 


MARTHA 

Yea,  Lord  ! — Yet  some  must  serve. 

Not  all  with  tranquil  heart, 
Even  at  thy  dear  feet, 
Wrapped  in  devotion  sweet, 

May  sit  apart ! 

Yea,  Lord  ! — Yet  some  must  bear 

The  burden  of  the  day, 
Its  labor  and  its  heat, 
While  others  at  thy  feet 

May  muse  and  pray  ! 

Yea,  Lord  ! — Yet  some  must  do 

Life's  daily  task-work  ;  some 
Who  fain  would  sing,  must  toil 
Amid  earth's  dust  and  moil, 
While  lips  are  dumb  ! 

Yea,  Lord  ! — Yet  man  must  earn, 
And  woman  bake  the  bread  ! 

And  some  must  watch  and  wake 

Early,  for  others'  sake, 
Who  pray  instead  ! 

Yea,  Lord  ! — Yet  even  thou 
Hast  need  of  earthly  care. 

I  bring  the  bread  and  wine 

To  thee,  O  Guest  Divine  I 
Be  this  my  prayer  ! 


THE  HOUR 

What  is  the  hour  of  the  day  ? 

O  watchman,  can  you  tell  ? 
Hark  !  from  the  tower  of  Time 

Strikes  the  alarum-bell ! 

The  strokes  I  cannot  count. 

O  watchman,  can  you  see 
On  the  misty  dial-plate 

What  hours  remain  for  me  ? 

I  know  the  rosy  dawn 
Faded — how  long  ago  ! — 

Lost  in  the  radiant  depths 
Of  morning's  golden  glow. 

Then  all  the  mountain  tops 
Stood  breathless  at  high  noon, 

While  earth  for  brief  repose 
Put  off  her  sandal  shoon. 

Now  faster  fly  the  hours — 
The  afternoon  is  here  ; 

O  watchman  in  the  tower, 
Tell  me,  is  sunset  near  ? 

Yet — why  care  I  to  know  ? — 
Beyond  the  sunset  bars 

Upon  the  dead  day  wait 
The  brightest  of  the  stars  ! 


THE   CLOSED   GATE 

1  WALKED  along  a  narrow  way  ; 

The  sun  was  shining  everywhere  ; 
The  jocund  earth  was  glad  and  gay, 

With  morning  freshness  in  the  air. 

The  grass  was  green  beneath  my  feet ; 

The  skies  were  blue  and  soft  o'erhead  ; 
The  robin  carolled  clear  and  sweet, 

And  flowers  their  fragrance  round  me  shed. 

How  shone  the  great  hills  far  away  ; 

How  clear  they  rose  against  the  blue ; 
How  fair  the  tranquil  meadows  lay, 

Where  the  bright  river  glances  through  ! 

But  suddenly,  as  on  I  pressed, 
Before  me  frowned  a  closed  gate  ; 

Filled  with  dismay,  and  sore  distressed, 
I  strove  in  vain  to  conquer  fate  ! 

Beyond,  the  hills  for  which  I  sighed — 
Beyond,  the  valleys  still  and  fair — 

Beyond,  the  meadows  stretching  wide. 
And  all  the  shining  fields  of  air  ! 

What  does  it  mean,  O  Father  !  when 
Thy  children  reach  some  closed  gate. 

Which,  though  they  knock  and  knock  again, 
Will  not  its  watch  and  ward  abate  ? 


370  THE   CLOSED    GATE 

Still  shall  they  batter  at  the  walls  ? 

Or  still,  like  children,  cry  and  fret, 
While  the  loud  clamor  of  their  calls 

Swells  high  in  turbulent  regret  ? 

When  thou  hast  barred  the  door,  shall  they 
Challenge  thy  wisdom,  God  of  love  ? 

Or  humbly  wait  beside  the  way 
Till  thou  the  barrier  shalt  remove  ? 

Too  oft  we  cannot  hear  thee  speak, 
So  loud  our  voices  and  our  prayers, 

While  to  the  patient  and  the  meek 
The  gate  thou  openest  unawares  1 


CONTENT 

Not  asking  how  or  why, 

Before  thy  will, 
O  Father,  let  my  heart 

Lie  hushed  and  still ! 

Why  should  I  seek  to  know  ? 

Thou  art  all-wise  ; 
If  thou  dost  bid  me  go, 

Let  that  suffice. 

If  thou  dost  bid  me  stay, 

Make  me  content 
In  narrow  bounds  to  dwell 

Till  life  be  spent. 

If  thou  dost  seal  the  lips 
That  fain  would  speak. 

Let  me  be  still  till  thou 
The  seal  shalt  break. 

If  thou  dost  make  pale  Pain 

Thy  minister, 
Then  let  my  patient  heart 

Clasp  hands  with  her. 

Or,  if  thou  sendest  Joy 
To  walk  with  me. 


372  CONTENT 

My  Father,  let  her  lead 
Me  nearer  thee  ! 

Teach  me  that  Joy  and  Pain 
Alike  are  thine  ; 

Teach  me  my  life  to  leave 
In  hands  divine ! 


MY    WONDERLAND 

They  tell  me  you  have  been  in  Wonderland. 
Why,  so  have  I !     No  boat's  keel  touched  the  strand, 
No  white  sails  flew,  no  swiftly  gliding  car 
Bore  me  to  mystic  realms,  unknown  and  far. 

And  yet  I,  too,  with  these  same  questioning  eyes, 
Have  seen  its  mountains  and  beheld  its  skies  ; 
I,  too,  have  been  in  Wonderland,  and  know 
How  through  its  secret  vales  the  weird  winds  blow. 

One  morn,  in  Wonderland — one  chill  spring  morn — 

I  saw  a  princess  sleeping,  pale  and  lorn. 

Cold  as  a  corse  ;  when,  lo  !  from  out  the  south 

A  young  knight  rode,  and  kissed  her  sad,  sweet  mouth. 

She  smiled,  she  woke  !     Then  rang  from  far  and  near 
Her  minstrels*  voices,  jubilant  and  clear  ; 
While  in  a  trice,  with  eager,  noiseless  feet, 
All  the  young  maiden  grasses,  fair  and  fleet. 

Ran  over  hill  and  dale,  to  bring  to  her 
Green  robes  with  wild  flowers  'broidered.     All  astir 
Were  the  gay,  courtier  butterflies  ;  the  trees 
Flung  forth  their  fluttering  banners  to  the  breeze  ; 

The  soft  airs  fanned  her  ;  and,  in  russet  dressed, 
Her  happy  servitors  around  her  pressed, 
Bearing  strange  sweets,  and  curious  flagons  filled 
With  life's  new  wine,  that  all  her  pulses  thrilled. 


374  MY   WONDERLAND 

In  this  same  Wonderland,  one  sweet  spring  day, 
In  a  gray  casket,  deftly  hidden  away, 
I  found  two  pearls  ;  but  as  I  looked  they  grew 
To  living  jewels,  that  took  wing  and  flew.    - 

And  once  a  creeping  worm,  within  my  sight 
Wove  its  own  shroud  and  coffin,  sealed  and  white  ; 
Then,  bursting  from  its  cerements,  soared  in  air, 
A  radiant  vision,  most  supremely  fair. 

Out  of  the  darksome  mould,  before  my  eyes 
I  saw  a  shaft  of  emerald  arise. 
Bearing  a  silver  chalice  veined  with  gold. 
And  set  with  gems  of  splendors  manifold. 

Once  in  a  vast,  pale,  hollow  pearl  I  stood, 
When  o'er  the  vaulted  dome  there  swept  a  flood 
Of  lurid  waves,  and  a  dark  funeral  pyre 
Took  to  its  heart  a  globe  of  crimson  fire. 

The  pageant  faded.     Lo  !  the  pearl  became 
A  liquid  sapphire,  touched  with  rosy  flame  ; 
And  as  I  gazed,  a  silver  crescent  hung 
In  violet  depths,  a  thousand  stars  among. 

I  saw  a  woman,  marvellously  fair. 
Flushed  with  warm  life,  and  buoyant  as  the  air  ; 
Next  morn  she  was  a  statue,  breathless,  cold, 
A  marble  goddess  of  transcendent  mould. 


Open  its  sweet,  warm  heart  and  be  a  flower. 
O  Wonderland  !  thou  art  so  near,  so  far  ; 
Near  as  this  rose,  remote  as  yonder  star  I 


THE   GUEST 

O  THOU  Guest  so  long  delayed, 
Surely,  when  the  house  was  made, 
In  its  chambers  wide  and  free, 
There  was  set  a  place  for  thee. 
Surely,  in  some  room  was  spread 
For  thy  sake  a  snowy  bed. 
Decked  with  linen  white  and  fine, 
Meet,  O  Guest,  for  use  of  thine. 

Yet  thou  hast  not  kept  the  tryst. 
Other  guests  our  lips  have  kissed  : 
Other  guests  have  tarried  long, 
Wooed  by  sunshine  and  by  song  ; 
For  the  year  was  bright  with  May, 
All  the  birds  kept  holiday. 
All  the  skies  were  clear  and  blue, 
When  this  house  of  ours  was  new. 

Youth  came  in  with  us  to  dwell, 
Crowned  with  rose  and  asphodel. 
Lingered  long,  and  even  yet 
Cannot  quite  his  haunts  forget. 
Love  hath  sat  beside  our  board. 
Brought  us  treasures  from  his  hoard, 
Brimmed  our  cups  with  fragrant  wine, 
Vintage  of  the  hills  divine. 


376  THE   GUEST 

Down  aur  garden  path  has  strayed 
Young  Romance,  in  light  arrayed  ; 
Joy  hath  tlung  her  garlands  wide  ; 
Faith  sung  low  at  eventide  ; 
Care  hath  flitted  in  and  out  ; 
Sorrow  strewn  her  weeds  about  ; 
Hope  held  up  her  torch  on  high 
When  clouds  darkened  all  the  sky. 

Pain,  with  pallid  lips  and  thin, 
Oft  hath  slept  our  house  within  ; 
Life  hath  called  us,  loud  and  long, 
With  a  voice  as  trumpet  strong. 
Sometimes  we  have  thought,  O  Guest, 
Thou  wert  coming  with  the  rest, 
Watched  to  see  thy  shadow  fall 
On  the  inner  chamber  wall. 

For  we  know  that,  soon  or  late, 
Thou  wilt  enter  at  the  gate. 
Cross  the  threshold,  pass  the  door, 
Glide  at  will  from  floor  to  floor. 
When  thou  comest,  by  this  sign 
We  shall  know  thee.  Guest  divine  : 
Though  alone  thy  coming  be, 
Someone  must  go  forth  with  thee  I 


AN   OLD-FASHIONED   GARDEN 

An  old-fashioned  garden  ?     Yes,  my  dear, 
No  doubt  it  is.     I  was  thinking  here 
Only  to-day,  as  I  sat  in  the  sun, 
How  fair  was  the  scene  I  looked  upon  ; 
Yet  wondered  still,  with  a  vague  surprise, 
How  it  might  look  to  other  eyes. 

'Tis  a  wide  old  garden.     Not  a  bed 
Cut  here  and  there  in  the  turf;  instead, 
The  broad  straight  paths  run  east  and  west, 
Down  which  two  horsemen  could  ride  abreast, 
And  north  and  south  with  an  equal  state, 
From  the  gray  stone  wall  to  the  low  white  gate. 

And,  where  they  cross  on  the  middle  line, 

Virgin's-bower  and  wild  woodbine 

Clamber  and  climb  at  their  own  sweet  will 

Over  the  latticed  arbor  still ; 

Though  since  they  were  planted  years  have  flown, 

And  many  a  time  have  the  roses  blown. 

To  the  right  the  hill  runs  down  to  the  river. 
Where  the  willows  droop  and  the  aspens  shiver, 
And  under  the  shade  of  the  hemlock-trees 
The  low  ferns  nod  to  the  passing  breeze  ; 
There  wild  flowers  blossom,  and  mosses  creep 
With  a  tangle  of  vines  o'er  the  wooded  steep. 


3/8  AN   OLD-FASHIONED    GARDEN 

So  quiet  it  is,  so  cool  and  still, 

In  the  green  retreat  of  the  shady  hill ! 

And  you  scarce  can  tell,  as  you  look  within, 

Where  the  garden  ends  and  the  woods  begin. 

But  here,  where  we  stand,  what  a  blaze  of  light, 

What  a  wealth  of  color,  makes  glad  the  sight ! 

Red  roses  burn  in  the  morning  glow  ; 
White  roses  proffer  their  cups  of  snow  ; 
In  scarlet  and  crimson  and  cloth-of-gold 
The  zinnias  flaunt,  and  the  marigold  ; 
And  stately  and  tall  the  lilies  stand. 
Like  vestal  virgins,  on  either  hand. 

Here  gay  sweet-peas,  like  butterflies. 
Flutter  and  dance  under  summer  skies  ; 
Blue  violets  here  in  the  shade  are  set, 
With  a  border  of  fragrant  mignonette  ; 
And  here  are  pansies  and  columbine, 
And  the  burning  stars  of  the  cypress-vine. 

Stately  hollyhocks,  row  on  row, 

Golden  sunflowers,  all  aglow, 

Scarlet  poppies,  and  larkspurs  blue, 

Asters  of  every  shade  and  hue  ; 

And  over  the  wall,  like  a  trail  of  fire. 

The  red  nasturtium  climbs  high  and  higher. 

My  lady's-slippers  are  fair  to  see. 

And  her  pinks  are  as  sweet  as  sweet  can  be, 

With  gilly-flowers  and  mourning-brides. 

And  many  another  flower  besides. 

Do  you  see  that  rose  without  a  thorn  ? 

It  was  planted  the  year  my  Hal  was  born. 


AN   OLD-FASHIONED    GARDEN  379 

And  he  is  a  man  now.     Yes,  my  dear, 

An  old-fashioned  garden  !     But,  sitting  here, 

I  think  how  often  lover  and  maid 

Down  these  long  flowery  paths  have  strayed, 

And  how  little  feet  have  over  them  run 

That  will  stir  no  more  in  shade  or  sun. 

As  one  who  reads  from  an  open  book, 
On  these  fair  luminous  scrolls  I  look ; 
And  all  the  story  of  life  is  there — 
Its  loves  and  losses,  hope  and  despair. 
An  old-fashioned  garden— but  to  my  eyes 
Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise. 


DISCONTENT 


{The  Brier  Rose  speaks.) 

I  CLING  to  the  garden  wall 

Outside,  where  the  grasses  grow  ; 
Where  the  tall  weeds  flaunt  in  the  sun, 

And  the  yellow  mulleins  blow. 
The  dock  and  the  thistle  crowd 

Close  to  my  shrinking  feet, 
And  the  gypsy  yarrow  shares 

My  cup  and  the  food  I  eat. 

The  rude  winds  toss  my  hair, 

The  wild  rains  beat  me  down. 
The  wayside  dust  lies  white 

And  thick  on  my  leafy  crown. 
I  cannot  keep  my  robes 

From  wanton  fingers  free, 
And  the  veriest  beggar  dares 

To  stop  and  gaze  at  me. 

Sometimes  I  climb  and  climb 
To  the  top  of  the  garden  wall, 

And  I  see  her  where  she  stands, 
Stately  and  fair  and  tall — 


DISCONTENT  38 1 

My  sister,  the  red,  red  Rose, 

My  sister,  the  royal  one, 
The  fairest  flower  that  blows 

Under  the  summer  sun  ! 

What  wonder  that  she  is  fair  ? 

What  wonder  that  she  is  sweet  ? 
The  treasures  of  earth  and  air 

Lie  at  her  dainty  feet ; 
The  choicest  fare  is  hers. 

Her  cup  is  brimmed  with  wine  ; 
Rich  are  her  emerald  robes. 

And  her  bed  is  soft  and  fine. 

She  need  not  lift  her  head 

Even  to  sip  the  dew  ; 
No  rude  touch  makes  her  shrink 

The  whole  long  summer  through. 
Her  servants  do  her  will ; 

They  come  at  her  beck  and  call. 
Oh,  rare  is  life  in  my  lady's  bowers 

Inside  of  the  garden  wall ! 


(The  Garden  Rose  speaks.) 

The  garden  path  runs  east. 

And  the  garden  path  runs  west ; 
There's  a  tree  by  the  garden  gate, 

And  a  little  bird  in  a  nest. 
It  sings  and  sings  and  sings ! 

Does  the  bird,  I  wonder,  know 
How,  over  the  garden  wall, 

The  bright  days  come  and  go? 


382  DISCONTENT 

The  garden  path  runs  north, 

And  the  garden  path  runs  south  ; 
The  brown  bee  hums  in  the  sun, 

And  kisses  the  lily's  mouth  ; 
But  it  flies  away,  away. 

To  the  birch-tree,  dark  and  tall. 
What  do  you  find,  O  brown  bee, 

Over  the  garden  wall  ? 

With  ruff  and  farthingale, 

Under  the  gardener's  eye. 
In  trimmest  guise  I  stand — 

Oh,  who  so  fine  as  I  ? 
But  even  the  light  wind  knows 

That  it  may  not  play  with  me. 
Nor  touch  my  beautiful  lips 

With  a  wild  caress  and  free. 

Oh,  straight  is  the  garden  path, 

And  smooth  is  the  garden  bed, 
Where  never  an  idle  weed 

Dares  lift  its  careless  head. 
But  I  know  outside  the  wall 

They  gather,  a  merry  throng  ; 
They  dance  and  flutter  and  sing, 

And  I  listen  all  day  long. 

The  Brier  Rose  swings  outside  ; 

Sometimes  she  climbs  so  high 
I  can  see  her  sweet  pink  face 

Against  the  blue  of  the  sky. 
What  wonder  that  she  is  fair, 

Whom  no  strait  bonds  enthrall  ? 
Oh,  rare  is  life  to  the  Brier  Rose, 

Outside  of  the  garden  wall ! 


THE    DOVES   AT    MENDON 

"  Coo  !  coo  !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  ! 

Under  the  vine-clad  porch  she  stands, 
A  gentle  maiden  with  willing  hands, 
Dropping  the  grains  of  yellow  corn. 
Low  and  soft,  like  a  mellow  horn. 
While  the  sunshine  over  her  falls. 
Over  and  over  she  calls  and  calls 

*'  Coo  !  coo  !  coo  ! "  to  the  doves — 
The  happy  doves  at  Mendon. 

"  Coo  !  coo !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon ! 

Down  they  flutter  with  timid  grace. 

Lured  by  the  voice  and  the  tender  face, 

Till  the  evening  air  is  all  astir 

With  the  happy  strife  and  the  eager  whir. 

One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

And  then  a  rush  through  the  ether  blue  ; 
While  Arne  scatters  the  yellow  corn 
For  the  gentle  doves  at  Mendon. 

**  Coo  !  coo  !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  ! 


384  THE  DOVES  AT   MENDON 

They  hop  on  the  porch  where  the  baby  sits, 
They  come  and  go  as  a  shadow  flits, 
Now  here,  now  there,  while  in  and  out 
They  crowd  and  jostle  each  other  about  ; 
Till  one,  grown  bolder  than  all  the  rest — 
A  snow-white  dove  with  an  arching  breast — 
Softly  lights  on  her  outstretched  hand 
Under  the  vines  at  Mendon. 

**  Coo  !  coo  !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  ! 

With  a  rush  and  a  whir  of  shining  wings, 
They  hear  and  obey — the  dainty  things  ! 
Dun  and  purple  and  snowy  white. 
Clouded  gray,  like  the  soft  twilight, 
Straight  as  an  arrow  shot  from  a  bow, 
Wheeling  and  circling  high  and  low, 

Down  they  fly  from  the  slanting  roof 
Of  the  old  red  barn  at  Mendon. 

"  Coo  !  coo  !  coo !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  ! 

Baby  Alice  with  wide  blue  eyes 
Watches  them  ever  with  new  surprise, 
While  she  and  Wag  on  the  mat  together 
Joy  in  the  soft  midsummer  weather. 
Hither  and  thither  she  sees  them  fly. 
Gray  and  white  on  the  azure  sky, 

Light  and  shadow  against  the  green 
Of  the  maple  grove  at  Mendon. 

*'  Coo !  coo  !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  ! 


THE  DOVES  AT   MENDON  385 

A  sound,  a  motion,  a  flash  of  wings — 
They  are  gone — Uke  a  dream  of  heavenly  things. 
The  doves  have  flown  and  the  porch  is  still, 
And  the  shadows  gather  on  vale  and  hill. 
Then  sinks  the  sun,  and  the  mountain  breeze 
Stirs  in  the  tremulous  maple-trees  ; 

While  Love  and  Peace,  as  the  night  comes  down, 

Brood  over  quiet  Mendon  ! 


A  LATE  ROSE 

I  SENT  a  little  maiden 
To  pluck  for  me  a  rose, 

The  sweetest  and  the  fairest 
That  in  the  garden  grows — 

A  blush-rose,  proud  and  tender, 

Upon  its  stem  so  slender, 

Swaying  in  dreamy  splendor 
Where  yellow  sunshine  glows. 

Back  came  the  little  maiden 
With  drooping,  downcast  head. 

And  slow,  reluctant  footsteps. 
And  this  to  me  she  said  : 

"  1  find  no  sweet  blush-roses 

In  all  the  garden  closes  : 

There  are  no  summer  roses ; 
It  must  be  they  are  dead  !  " 

Then  bent  I  to  the  maiden 

And  touched  her  shining  hair — 

Dear  heart !  in  all  the  garden 
Was  nothing  half  so  fair  ! 

''Nay!  "said  I,  "  let  the  roses 

Die  in  the  garden  closes 

Whenever  fate  disposes, 
If  I  t^is  rose  may  wear  I  " 


PERIWINKLE 

Tinkle,  tinkle, 
Periwinkle ! 
Soft  and  clear, 
Far  or  near, 
Still  the  mellow  notes  I  hear  ! 
Up  and  down  the  sunny  hills, 
Here  you  go,  there  you  go, 
Where  the  happy  mountain  rills 
Tinkle  soft,  tinkle  low  ; 
Where  the  willows,  all  a-quiver, 
Dip  their  long  wands  in  the  river, 
And  the  hemlock  shadows  fall 
By  the  gray  rocks,  cool  and  tall — 
In  and  out, 
And  round  about, 
Here  you  go. 
There  you  go  I 

Tinkle,  tinkle. 
Periwinkle  ! 
Here  and  there. 
Everywhere, 
Floats  the  music  on  the  air ! 
Through  the  pastures  wide  and  free. 

Here  you  go,  there  you  go, 
Making  friends  with  bird  and  bee, 
Flying  high,  flying  low  ; 


388  PERIWINKLE 

In  and  out,  where  lilies  blowing 
Nod  above  wild  grasses  growing, 
Where  the  sweet-fern  and  the  brake 
All  around  rich  odors  make. 
Where  the  mosses  cling  and  creep 
To  the  rocks,  and  up  the  steep — 

In  and  out 

You  wind  about. 
Here  and  there, 
Everywhere  ! 

Tinkle,  tinkle, 
Periwinkle  ! 
Day  is  done, 
And  the  sun 
Now  its  royal  couch  hath  won  ! 

Homeward  through  the  winding  lane, 

Here  you  go,  there  you  go. 
While  the  bell  in  sweet  refrain 
Tinkles  clear,  tinkles  low — 
Tinkles  softly  through  the  gloaming, 
*'  Drop  the  bars — I'm  tired  of  roaming 
Here  and  there,  everywhere 
Through  the  pastures  wide  and  fair. 
Home  is  best. 
Home  and  rest !  " 
Through  the  bars  goes  Periwinkle, 
While  the  bell  goes  tinkle,  tinkle, 

Low  and  clear. 
Saying,  softly,  ''Night  is  here  !  " 


AFTERNOON 

0  PERFECT  day, 

1  bid  thee  stay  ! 

Too  fast  thy  glad  hours  slip  away  ; 
The  morn,  the  noon, 
Have  fled  too  soon — 

Delay,  O  golden  afternoon  ! 

0  peerless  Sun, 
Thou  radiant  one 

Whose  dazzling  course  is  half-way  run, 
Stay,  stay  thy  flight 
Down  yon  blue  height, 

Nor  haste  thee  to  the  arms  of  night ! 

The  west  wind  blows 
O'er  beds  of  rose. 
But  does  not  stir  my  deep  repose. 
In  dreamful  guise 

1  close  mine  eyes. 
Borne  on  its  wings  to  Paradise. 

Beneath  this  tree 

Half  consciously 
I  share  the  life  of  all  things  free, 

Hearing  the  beat 

Of  rhythmic  feet, 
As  the  grasses  run  my  hand  to  meet. 


390  AFTERNOON 


The  wild  bee's  hum, 

The  lone  bird's  drum, 
O'er  the  wide  pastures  faintly  come  ; 

And  soft  and  clear 

Falls  on  my  ear 
The  cow-bell's  tinkle,  far  and  near  ! 

Before  my  eyes 

Three  blue  peaks  rise, 
Piercing  the  bright  autumnal  skies  ; 

Silent  and  grand, 

On  either  hand. 
Far  mountain  heights  majestic  stand. 

By  wreaths  of  mist 
The  vales  are  kissed — 

Fair,  floating  clouds  of  amethyst. 
That  follow  on. 
Through  shade  and  sun, 

Where'er  the  river's  course  may  run. 

Here,  looking  down 

On  roof-trees  brown, 
I  catch  fair  glimpses  of  the  town. 

There,  far  away, 

The  shadows  play 
On  crags  and  bowlders,  huge  and  gray. 

All  whispering  low. 

The  breezes  go — 
The  wandering  birds  flit  to  and  fro  ; 

Winged  motes  float  by 

Me  as  I  lie, 
And  yellow  leaves  drop  silently. 


AFTERNOON  39 1 

The  morn,  the  noon, 

Have  fled  too  soon — 
Delay,  O  golden  afternoon, 

While  with  rapt  eyes 

My  spirit  flies 
From  yon  blue  peaks  to  Paradise  ! 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    PROW 

BERMUDA,   MAY,    1 883 

The  salt  tides  ebb,  the  salt  tides  flow, 
From  the  near  isles  the  soft  airs  blow ; 
From  leagues  remote,  with  roar  and  din, 
Over  the  reefs  the  waves  rush  in  ; 
The  wild  white  breakers  foam  and  fret, 
Day  follows  day,  stars  rise  and  set ; 
Yet,  grandly  poised,  as  calm  and  fair 
As  some  proud  spirit  of  the  air. 
Unmoved  she  lifts  her  radiant  brow — 
She,  the  White  Lady  of  the  Prow  ! 

The  winds  blow  east,  the  winds  blow  west. 
From  woodlands  low  to  the  eagle's  nest ; 
The  winds  blow  north,  the  winds  blow  south. 
To  steal  the  sweets  from  the  lily's  mouth  ! 
We  come  and  go  ;  we  spread  our  sails 
Like  sea-gulls  to  the  favoring  gales  ; 
Or,  soft  and  slow,  our  oars  we  dip 
Under  the  lee  of  the  stranded  ship. 
Yet  little  recks  she  when  or  how, 
The  grand  White  Lady  of  the  Prow. 

We  laugh,  we  love,  we  smile,  we  sigh, 

But  never  she  heeds  as  w^e  glide  by — 

Never  she  cares  for  our  idle  ways 

Nor  turns  from  the  brink  of  the  world  her  gaze  ! 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   PROW  393 

What  does  she  see  when  her  steadfast  eyes 

Peer  into  the  sunset  mysteries, 

And  all  the  secrets  of  time  and  space 

Seem  unfolded  before  her  face  ? 

What  does  she  hear  when,  pale  and  calm. 

She  lists  for  the  great  sea's  evening  psalm  ? 

Speak,  Lady,  speak  !     Thy  sealed  lip. 

Thou  fair  white  spirit  of  the  ship, 

Could  tell  such  tales  of  high  emprise. 

Of  valorous  deeds  and  counsels  wise  ! 

What  prince  shall  rouse  thee  from  thy  trance, 

And  meet  thy  first  revealing  glance, 

Or  what  Pygmalion  from  her  sleep 

Bid  Galatea  wake  and  weep  ? 

The  wave's  wild  passion  stirs  thee  not — 

Oh,  is  thy  life's  long  love  forgot  ? 

• 

How  canst  thou  bear  this  tranced  calm 
By  sunlit  isles  of  bloom  and  balm — 
Thou  who  hast  sailed  the  utmost  seas, 
Empress  alike  of  wave  and  breeze  ; 
Thou  who  hast  swept  from  pole  to  pole, 
Where  the  great  surges  swell  and  roll  ; 
Breasted  the  billows  white  with  wrath. 
Rode  in  the  tempest's  fiery  path. 
And  proudly  borne  to  waiting  hands 
The  glorious  spoil  of  farthest  lands  ? 

How  canst  thou  bear  this  silence,  deep 
And  tranquil  as  an  infant's  sleep — 
Thou  who  hast  heard  above  thy  head 
The  white  sails  sing  with  wings  outspread  ; 
Thou  whose  strong  soul  has  thrilled  to  feel 
The  swift  rush  of  the  ploughing  keel. 


394        THE  LADY  OF  THE  PROW 

The  dash  of  waves,  and  the  wild  ifproar 
Of  ocean  lashed  from  shore  to  shore  ? 
How  canst  thou  bear  this  changeless  rest, 
Thou  who  hast  made  the  world  thy  quest  ? 

O  Lady  of  the  stranded  ship, 

Once  more  our  Imgering  oars  we  dip 

In  the  clear  blue  that  round  thee  lies, 

Fanned  by  the  airs  of  Paradise  ! 

Farewell !  farewell !     But  oft  when  day 

On  our  far  hill-tops  dies  away, 

And  night's  cool  winds  the  pine-trees  bow, 

Our  eyes  will  see  thee,  even  as  now, 

Waiting — a  spirit  pale  and  calm — 

To  hear  the  great  sea's  evening  psalm  ! 


THOU  AND  I 

April  days  are  over ! 
O  my  gay  young  lover, 
Forth  we  fare  together 
In  the  soft  May  weather  ; 
Forth  we  wander,  hand  in  hand. 
Seeking  an  enchanted  land 
Underneath  a  smiling  sky, 
So  blithely — thou  and  I  ! 

Soft  spring  days  are  over  ! 
O  my  ardent  lover. 
Many  a  hill  together, 
In  the  July  weather, 
Climb  we  when  the  days  are  long 
And  the  summer  heats  are  strong, 
And  the  harvest  wains  go  by, 
So  bravely — thou  and  I  ! 

July  days  are  over! 
O  my  faithful  lover, 
Side  by  side  together 
In  the  August  weather, 
When  the  swift,  wild  storms  befall  us, 
And  the  fiery  darts  appall  us, 
Wait  we  till  the  clouds  sweep  by, 
And  stars  shine— thou  and  I ! 

Summer  days  are  over  I 
O  my  one  true  lover. 


396  THOU   AND   I 

Sit  we  now  alone  together 
In  the  early  autumn  weather ! 
From  our  nest  the  birds  have  flown 
To  fair  dreamlands  of  their  own, 
And  we  see  the  days  go  by, 
In  silence — thou  and  1 1 

Storm  and  stress  are  over ! 
O  my  friend  and  lover, 
Closer  now  we  lean  together 
In  the  Indian-summer  weather  ; 
See  the  bright  leaves  falling,  falling, 
Hear  the  low  winds  calling,  calling, 
Glad  to  let  the  world  go  by 
Unheeding — thou  and  I ! 

Winter  days  are  over ! 
O  my  life-long  lover, 
Rest  we  now  in  peace  together 
Out  of  reach  of  changeful  weather ! 
Not  a  sound  can  mar  our  sleeping- 
Breath  of  laughter,  or  of  weeping. 
May  not  reach  us  where  we  lie 
Uncaring — thou  and  I ! 


LATER    POEMS 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BABOUSHKA 

A  CHRISTMAS   BALLAD 

"  There's  a  star  in  the  East !  "  he  cried, 
Jasper,  the  gray,  the  wise, 
To  Melchior  and  to  Balthazar 
Up-gazing  to  the  skies. 

"  Last  night  from  my  high  tower 
I  watched  it  as  it  burned, 
While  all  my  trembling  soul 
In  awe  and  wonder  yearned. 

"  For  I  know  the  midnight  heavens  ; 
I  can  call  the  stars  by  name — 
Orion  and  royal  Ashtaroth 
And  Cimah's  misty  flame. 

"  I  know  where  Hesper  glows, 
And  where,  with  fiery  eye, 
Proud  Mars  in  burning  splendor  leads 
The  armies  of  the  sky. 

*'  But  never  have  I  seen 

A  star  that  shone  like  this — 
The  star  so  long  foretold 
By  sage  and  seer  it  is  ! 


400    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BABOUSHKA 

**  When  first  I,  sleepless,  saw  it 

Slow  breaking  through  the  dark — 
Nay,  hear  me,  Balthazar, 
And  thou,  O  Melchior,  hark ! — 

**  When  first  I  saw  the  star 

It  bore  the  form  of  a  child, 
It  held  in  its  hand  a  sceptre. 
Or  the  cross  of  the  undefiled. 

*'  Lo  !  somewhere  on  the  earth 
It  shines  above  His  rest — 
The  Royal  One,  the  Babe, 
On  mortal  mother's  breast. 

**  Now  haste  we  forth  to  find  Him — 
To  worship  at  His  feet, 
To  Him  of  whom  the  prophets  sang 
Bearing  oblations  meet  !  " 

Then  the  Three  Holy  Kings 
Went  forth  in  eager  haste, 

With  servants  and  with  camels, 
Toward  the  desert  waste. 

Ah !  knew  they  what  they  bore  ? 

Gold  for  the  earthly  king — 
Frankincense  for  the  God — 

Myrrh  for  man's  suffering. 

With  breath  of  costly  spices 
And  precious  gums  of  Isis, 

The  desert  air  was  sweet. 
As  on  they  fared  by  day  and  night 

Judea's  King  to  greet. 


THE   LEGEND   OF  THE  BABOUSHKA  4OI 

The  strange  star  went  before  them, 

They  followed  where  it  led  ; 
**  'Twill  guide  us  to  His  presence," 

Jasper,  the  holy,  said. 

They  crossed  deep-flowing  rivers, 
They  climbed  the  mountains  high, 

They  slept  in  dreary  places 
Under  the  lonely  sky. 

One  day,  where  stretched  the  desert 

Before  them  far  and  wide, 
They  saw  a  smoke-wreath  curling 

A  spreading  palm  beside  ; 

And  from  a  lowly  dwelling, 

On  household  cares  intent, 
A  woman  gazed  upon  them. 

In  mute  bewilderment. 

"  O  come  with  us  !  "  cried  Melchior, 
And  ardent  Balthazar, 
"  We  go  to  find  the  Christ-child, 
Led  by  yon  blazing  star  ! 

"  Thou  knowest  how  the  prophets 
His  coming  long  foretold  ; 
We  go  to  kneel  before  Him 
With  gifts  of  myrrh  and  gold." 

But  she,  delaying,  answered, 

"  My  lords,  your  words  are  good, 

And  I  your  pious  mission 
Have  gladly  understood, 


402     THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BABOUSHKA 

**  Yet  I,  ere  I  can  join  you, 
Have  many  things  to  do  : 
I  must  set  my  house  in  order, 
Must  spin  and  bake  and  brew. 

**  Go  ye  to  find  Messiah ! 

And  when  my  work  is  done 
I  will  your  footsteps  follow, 
Mayhap  ere  set  of  sun." 

Across  the  shining  desert 
The  slow  train  passed  from  sight ; 

She  set  her  house  in  order, 
She  bleached  her  linen  white. 

With  busy  hands  she  labored 
Till  all  at  last  was  done — 

But  thrice  the  moon  had  risen, 
And  thrice  the  lordly  sun  ! 

Then  bound  she  on  her  sandals, 
Her  pilgrim  staff  she  took  ; 

With  bread  of  wheat  and  barley, 
And  water  from  the  brook  ; 

And  forth  she  went  to  find  Him — 

The  babe  Emmanuel, 
Who  should  be  born  in  Bethlehem 

By  David's  sacred  well. 

All  that  long  day  she  journeyed  ; 

She  scanned  the  desert  wide, 
In  all  its  lonely  reaches 

There  was  no  soul  beside — 


THE   LEGEND   OF   THE   BABOUSHKA  403 

No  track  to  guide  her  onward, 

No  footprints  in  the  sand, 
Only  the  vast,  still  spaces 

Wide-stretched  on  either  hand  ! 

Night  came — but  where  the  Wise  Men 

Had  seen  His  burning  star. 
No  glorious  sign  beheld  she 

Clear  beaming  from  afar. 

Though  Orion  and  Arcturus 

Shone  bright  above  her  head, 
And  up  the  heavenly  arches 

Proud  Mars  his  legions  led  ! 


She  did  not  find  the  Christ-child. 

'Tis  said  she  seeks  Him  still. 
Over  the  wide  earth  roaming 

With  swift,  remorseful  will. 

Her  thin  white  locks  the  dew-fall 
Of  every  clime  has  wet — 

In  palace  and  in  hovel 
She  seeks  Messiah  yet ! 

In  every  child  she  fancies 
The  Hidden  One  may  be. 

On  each  bright  head  she  gazes 
The  mystic  crown  to  see. 

She  twines  the  Christmas  garlands, 
She  lights  the  Christmas  fires, 

She  leads  the  joyful  carols 
Of  all  the  Christmas  choirs  ; 


404    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BABOUSHKA 

She  feeds  the  poor  and  hungry, 
And  on  her  tender  breast 

She  soothes  all  suffering  children 
To  softest,  sweetest  rest. 

Attend  her,  holy  Angels  ! 

Guard  her,  ye  Cherubim  ! 
For  whatsoe'er  she  does  for  these 

She  does  it  as  to  Him  ! 


DAYBREAK 
an  easter  poem 

Mary  Magdalene, 
At  the  break  of  day, 

Wan  with  tears  and  watching. 
Hasted  on  her  way  ; 

Bearing  costly  spices, 

Myrrh,  and  sweet  perfume. 
Through  the  shadowy  garden 

To  the  Master's  tomb. 

Slowly  broke  the  gray  dawn  : 
On  her  head  the  breeze 

Shook  a  rain  of  dew-drops 
From  the  cypress-trees. 

Rose  and  lily  parted 

As  to  let  her  pass, 
And  the  violets  blessed  her 

From  the  tender  grass. 

Little  heed  she  paid  them ; 

Christ,  the  Lord,  was  dead  ; 
All  at  last  was  over, 

All  at  last  was  said. 


406  DAYBREAK 


What  of  hope  remained  ? 

Black  against  the  sky, 
Calvary's  awful  crosses 

Stretched  their  arms  on  high  ! 

Mary  Magdalene 

Made  her  bitter  moan  : 
"  From  the  sealed  sepulchre 

Who  shall  roll  the  stone  ?  " 

Swift  she  ran,  her  spirit 
Filled  with  awe  and  fear ; 

Wide  the  door  stood  open 
As  her  feet  drew  near  ! 

All  the  place  was  flooded 
With  a  radiance  bright ; 

Forth  into  the  darkness 
Streamed  a  holy  light. 

Down  she  stooped,  and  peering 
The  dread  tomb  within,      . 

Saw  a  great  white  angel 
Where  the  Lord  had  been ! 

Sore  she  cried  in  anguish  : 
*'  Who  hath  him  betrayed  ? 

They  have  taken  away  my  Lord  1 
Where  is  he  laid  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  the  shining  angel, 
Calmly  smiling,  said — 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living 
Down  among  the  dead  ? 


DAYBREAK  40/ 

"  He  is  not  here,  but  risen ! " 

All  her  soul  stood  still ; 
Through  her  trembling  pulses 

Ran  a  conscious  thrill. 

"  Mary  ! "  said  a  low  voice  ; 

**  Rabboni !  "  answered  she. 
Then  life  was  brought  to  light 

And  immortality ! 

Mary  Magdalene, 

First  of  woman  born 
To  see  the  clear  light  streaming 

O'er  the  hills  of  morn  ; 

First  to  hail  the  Lord  Christ, 

Conqueror  of  Death, 
First  to  bow  before  Him 

With  abated  breath  ; 

First  to  hear  the  Master 

Say — "  From  Death's  dark  prison, 
From  its  bonds  and  fetters, 

Lo  !  I  have  arisen  ! 

**  Now  to  God,  my  Father — 

Mine  and  yours — I  go  ; 
And  because  I  live 

Ye  shall  live  also  !  " 

Didst  thou  grasp  the  meaning  ? 

Know  that  Death  was  dead  ? 
That  the  seed  of  woman 

Had  bruised  the  serpent's  head  ? 


408  DAYBREAK 


Didst  thou  know  Messiah 

The  gates  of  hell  had  broken, 

And  life  unto  its  captives 
Once  for  all  had  spoken  ? 

O  !  through  all  the  ages, 

Every  son  of  man, 
Be  he  slave  or  monarch, 

Born  to  bliss  or  ban — 

Lord,  or  prince,  or  peasant,    - 

Jester,  sage,  or  seer, 
Wife,  or  child,  or  mother, 

Priest,  or  worshipper — 

Through  the  grave's  lone  portals 
Soon  or  late  had  passed, 

But  no  sign  or  token 
Back  to  earth  had  cast ! 

In  Ramah  was  a  voice  heard 
Sounding  through  the  years — 

Rachel  for  her  children 
Pouring  sighs  and  tears  ; 

Rizpah  for  her  slain  sons 

Woful  vigils  keeping  ; 
David  for  young  Absalom 

In  the  chamber  weeping ! 

All  earth's  myriad  millions 
To  their  dead  had  cried, 

Empty  arms  outreaching 
In  the  silence  wide, 


DAYBREAK  409 

Yet  from  out  the  darkness 

Came  nor  word,  nor  sound, 
As  the  long  ranks  vanished 

In  the  black  profound — 

Came  no  word  till  Mary 

Heard  the  Angel  say — 
"  Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  ; 

The  Lord  Christ  lives  to-day  !  " 

From  the  empty  sepulchre 

Streamed  the  Light  Divine  ; 
Grave  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

Where,  O  Death,  is  thine  ? 

Mary  Magdalen^, 

Hope  is  born  again  ; 
Clear  the  Day-star  rises 

To  the  eyes  of  men. 

Lo  !  the  mists  are  fleeing ! 

Shine,  O  Olivet, 
For  the  crown  of  promise 

On  thy  brow  is  set ! 

Lift  your  heads,  ye  mountains  ! 

Clap  your  hands,  ye  hills  ! 
Into  rapturous  singing  * 

Break,  ye  murmuring  rills  ! 

Shout  aloud,  O  forests  ! 

Swell  the  song,  O  seas ! 
Wake,  resistless  ocean. 

All  your  symphonies ! 


4IO  DAYBREAK 

Wave  your  palms,  O  tropics  ! 

Lonely  isles,  rejoice  ! 
O  ye  silent  deserts, 

Find  a  choral  voice  ! 


Winds,  on  mighty  trumpets, 
Blow  the  strains  abroad, 

While  each  star  in  heaven 
Hails  its  risen  Lord ! 

"  Alleluia  !  Alleluia  !  "— 
How  the  voices  ring  ! 

Alleluia  !  Alleluia  !  " 

Earth  and  heaven  sing  ! 

Alleluia  !  Christ  is  risen  ! 

Chant  his  praise  ahvay  ! 
From  the  sealed  sepulchre 

Christ  is  risen  to-day  ! 


THE  APPLE-TREE 

Graceful  and  lithe  and  tall, 
It  stands  by  the  garden  wall, 
In  the  flush  of  its  pink- white  bloom 
Elate  with  its  own  perfume. 
Tossing  its  young  bright  head 

In  the  first  glad  joy  of  May, 
While  its  singing  leaves  sing  back 

To  the  bird  on  the  dancing  spray. 
"  I'm  alive  !     I'm  abloom  !"  it  cries 
To  the  winds  and  the  laughing  skies. 
Ho  !  for  the  gay  young  apple-tree 
That  stands  by  the  garden  wall ! 

Sturdy  and  broad  and  tall, 

Over  the  garden  wall 

It  spreads  its  branches  wide — 

A  bower  on  either  side. 

For  the  bending  boughs  hang  low  ; 

And  with  shouts  and  gay  turmoil 
The  children  gather  like  bees 

To  garner  the  golden  spoil  ; 
While  the  smiling  mother  sings, 
*'  Rejoice  for  the  gift  it  brings  ! 
Ho  !  for  the  laden  apple-tree 
That  stands  by  our  garden  wall !  " 

The  strong  swift  years  fly  past, 
Each  swifter  than  the  last  ; 


412  THE   APPLE-TREE 

And  the  tree  by  the  garden  wall 

Sees  joy  and  grief  befall. 

Still  from  the  spreading  boughs 

Some  golden  apples  swing  ; 
But  the  children  come  no  more 

For  the  autumn  harvesting. 
The  tangled  grass  lies  deep 
Where  the  long  path  used  to  creep  ; 
Yet  ho  !  for  the  brave  old  apple-tree 
That  leans  o'er  the  crumbling  wall ! 

Now  generations  pass, 
Like  shadows  on  the  grass. 
What  is  there  that  remains 
For  all  their  toil  and  pains  ? 
A  little  hollow  place 

Where  once  a  hearthstone  lay  ; 
An  empty,  silent  space 

Whence  life  hath  gone  away  ; 
Tall  brambles  where  the  lilacs  grew, 
Some  fennel,  and  a  clump  of  rue. 
And  this  one  gnarled  old  apple-tree 
Where  once  was  the  garden  wall ! 


THE   COMFORTER 

How  dost  thou  come,  O  Comforter  ? 

In  heavenly  glory  dressed, 
Down  floating  from  the  far-off  skies, 

With  lilies  on  thy  breast  ? 
With  silver  lilies  on  thy  breast, 

And  in  thy  falling  hair, 
Bringing  the  bloom  and  balm  of  heaven 

To  this  dim,  earthly  air  ? 

How  dost  thou  come,  O  Comforter  ? 

With  strange,  unearthly  light. 
And  mystic  splendor  aureoled. 

In  trances  of  the  night  ? 
In  lone,  mysterious  silences, 

In  visions  rapt  and  high. 
And  holy  dreams,  like  pathways  set 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  sky  ? 

Not  thus  alone,  O  Comforter ! 

Not  thus,  thou  Guest  Divine, 
Whose  presence  turns  our  stones  to  bread, 

Our  water  into  wine  ! 
Not  always  thus — for  thou  dost  stoop 

To  our  poor,  common  clay, 
Too  faint  for  saintly  ecstasy, 

Too  impotent  to  pray. 


414  THE   COMFORTER 

How  does  God  send  the  Comforter  ? 

Ofttimes  through  byways  dim  ; 
Not  always  by  the  beaten  path 

Of  sacrament  and  hymn  ; 
Not  always  through  the  gates  of  prayer, 

Or  penitential  psalm, 
Or  sacred  rite,  or  holy  day, 

Or  incense,  breathing  balm. 

How  does  God  send  the  Comforter  ? 

Perchance  through  faith  intense  ; 
Perchance  through  humblest  avenues 

Of  sight,  or  sound,  or  sense. 
Haply  in  childhood's  laughing  voice 

Shall  breathe  the  voice  divine, 
And  tender  hands  of  earthly  love 

Pour  for  thee  heavenly  wine  ! 

How  will  God  send  the  Comforter  ? 

Thou  knowest  not,  nor  I  ! 
His  ways  are  countless  as  the  stars 

His  hand  hath  hung  on  high. 
His  roses  bring  their  fragrant  balm. 

His  twilight  hush  its  peace, 
Morning  its  splendor,  night  its  calm, 

To  give  thy  pain  surcease  ! 


SANTA   CLAUS 

A  VOICE  from  out  of  the  northern  sky  : 
**  On  the  wings  of  the  hmitless  winds  I  fly. 
Swifter  than  thought  over  mountain  and  vale, 
City  and  moorland,  desert  and  dale  ! 
From  the  north  to  the  south,  from  the  east  to  the  west, 
I  hasten  regardless  of  slumber  or  rest  ; 
Oh,  nothing  you  dream  of  can  fly  as  fast 
As  I  on  the  wings  of  the  wintry  blast  ! 

"  The  wondering  stars  look  out  to  see 
Who  he  that  flieth  so  fast  may  be, 
And  their  bright  eyes  follow  my  earthward  track 
By  the  gleam  of  the  jewels  I  bear  in  my  pack. 
For  I  have  treasures  for  high  and  for  low  : 
Rubies  that  burn  like  the  sunset  glow ; 
Diamond  rays  for  the  crowned  queen  ; 
For  the  princess,  pearls  with  their  silver  sheen. 

**  I  enter  the  castle  with  noiseless  feet — 
The  air  is  silent  and  soft  and  sweet ; 
And  I  lavish  my  beautiful  tokens  there — 
Fairings  to  make  the  fair  more  fair  ! 
I  enter  the  cottage  of  want  and  woe— 
The  candle  is  out,  and  the  fire  burns  low  ; 
But  the  sleepers  smile  in  a  happy  dream 
As  I  scatter  my  gifts  by  the  moon's  pale  beam. 


4l6  SANTA   CLAUS 

"  There's  never  a  home  so  low,  no  doubt, 
But  I  in  my  flight  can  find  it  out ; 
Nor  a  hut  so  hidden  but  I  can  see 
The  shadow  cast  by  the  lone  roof-tree  ! 
There's  never  a  home  so  proud  and  high 
That  I  am  constrained  to  pass  it  by. 
Nor  a  heart  so  happy  it  may  not  be 
Happier  still  when  blessed  by  me  ! 


(( 


What  is  my  name  ?     Ah,  who  can  tell, 
Though  in  every  land  'tis  a  magic  spell ! 
Men  call  me  that,  and  they  call  me  this  ; 
Yet  the  different  names  are  the  same,  I  wis  ! 
Gift-bearer  to  all  the  world  am  I, 
Joy-giver,  Light-bringer,  where'er  I  fly  ; 
But  the  name  I  bear  in  the  courts  above, 
My  truest  and  holiest  name,  is— LOVE  !  '* 


THE    ARMORER'S    ERRAND 

A  BALLAD  OF  1 775 

Where  the  far  skies  soared  clear  and  bright 
From  mountain  height  to  mountain  height, 
In  the  heart  of  a  forest  old  and  gray, 
Castleton  slept  one  Sabbath  day — 
Slept  and  dreamed,  on  the  seventh  of  May, 
Seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-five. 

But  hark !  a  humming,  like  bees  in  a  hive  ; 
Hark  to  the  shouts—"  They  come  !  they  come  !  " 
Hark  to  the  sound  of  the  fife  and  drum  ! 
For  up  from  the  south  two  hundred  men — 
Two  hundred  and  fifty — from  mount  and  glen, 
While  the  deep  woods  rang  with  their  rallying  cry 
Of  "Ticonderoga!  Fort  Ti !  FortTi!" 
Swept  into  the  town  with  a  martial  tread, 
Ethan  Allen  marching  ahead  ! 

Next  day  the  village  was  all  astir 

With  unwonted  tumult  and  hurry.     There  were 

Gatherings  here  and  gatherings  there, 

A  feverish  heat  in  the  very  air, 

The  ominous  sound  of  tramping  feet, 

And  eager  groups  in  the  dusty  street. 

To  Eben's  forge  strode  Gershom  Beach 

(Idle  it  stood,  and  its  master  away)  ; 


4i8  THE  armorer's  errand 

Blacksmith  and  armorer  stout  was  he, 
First  in  the  fight  and  first  in  the  breach, 
And  first  in  work  where  a  man  should  be. 
"  I'll  borrow  your  tools,  my  friend,"  he  said, 
"  And  temper  these  blades  if  I  lose  my  head!  " 

So  he  wrought  away  till  the  sun  went  down. 

And  silence  fell  on  the  turbulent  town  ; 

And  the  flame  of  the  forge  through  the  darkness  glowed, 

A  square  of  light  on  the  sandy  road. 

Then  over  the  threshold  a  shadow  fell, 

And  he  heard  a  voice  that  he  knew  right  well. 

It  was  Ethan  Allen's.     He  cried  :   "  I  knew 

Where  the  forge-fire  blazed  I  must  look  for  you  ! 

But  listen  !  more  arduous  work  than  this, 

Lying  in  wait  for  someone  is  ; 

And  tempering  blades  is  only  play 

To  the  task  I  set  for  him  this  day — 

Or  this  night,  rather."     A  grim  smile  played 

O'er  the  armorer's  face  as  his  hand  he  stayed. 

"  Say  on.     I  never  have  shirked,"  said  he  ; 

"  What  may  this  wonderful  task- work  be  ?  " 

*  *  To  go  by  the  light  of  the  evening  star 

On  an  urgent  errand,  swift  and  far — 

From  town  to  town  and  from  farm  to  farm 

To  carry  the  warning  and  sound  the  alarm  ! 

Wake  Rutland  and  Pittsford  !     Rouse  Neshobe,  too, 

And  all  the  fair  valley  the  Otter  runs  through — 

For  we  need  more  men  !     Make  no  delay. 

But  hasten,  hasten,  upon  your  way  !  " 

He  doffed  his  apron,  he  tightened  his  belt, 

To  fasten  the  straps  of  his  leggings  he  knelt. 

"  Ere  the  clock  strikes  nine,"  said  Gershom  Beach, 

"  Friend  Allen,  I  will  be  out  of  reach  ; 


THE   ARMORER  S   ERRAND  419 

And  I  pledge  you  my  word,  ere  dawn  of  day 

Guns  and  men  shall  be  under  way. 

But  where  shall  I  send  these  minute -men  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Hand's  Cove  ?  "   said  Allen  then, 

**  On  the  shore  of  Champlain  ?     Let  them  meet  me  there 

By  to-morrow  night,  be  it  foul  or  fair  !  " 

"  Good-by,  I'm  off ! "    Then  down  the  road 

As  if  on  seven-league  boots  he  strode, 

While  Allen  watched  from  the  forge's  door 

Till  the  stalwart  form  he  could  see  no  more.* 

Into  the  woods  passed  Gershom  Beach  ; 

By  nine  of  the  clock  he  was  out  of  reach. 

But  still,  as  his  will  his  steps  outran, 

He  said  to  himself,  with  a  laugh,  *'  Old  man. 

Never  a  minute  have  you  to  lose, 

Never  a  minute  to  pick  or  choose  ; 

For  sixty  miles  in  twenty-four  hours 

Is  surely  enough  to  try  your  powers. 

So  square  your  shoulders  and  speed  away 

With  never  a  halt  by  night  or  day." 

'Twas  a  moonless  night ;  but  over  his  head 
The  stars  a  tremulous  lustre  shed, 
And  the  breath  of  the  woods  grew  strangely  sweet, 
As  he  crushed  the  wild  ferns  under  his  feet, 
And  trampled  the  shy  arbutus  blooms, 
With  their  hoarded  wealth  of  rare  perfumes. 
He  sniffed  as  he  went.     "  It  seems  to  me 
There  are  May-flowers  here,  but  I  cannot  see. 
I've  read  of  the  *  hush  of  the  silent  night '  ; 
Now  hark  !  there's  a  wolf  on  yonder  height  ; 
There's  a  snarling  catamount  prowling  round  ; 
Every  inch  of  the  *  silence  '  is  full  of  sound  ; 
The  night-birds  cry  ;  the  whip-poor-wills 


420  THE   ARMORER'S   ERRAND 

Call  to  each  other  from  all  the  hills  ; 

A  scream  comes  down  from  the  eagle's  nest  ; 

The  bark  of  a  fox  from  the  cliffs  tall  crest ; 

The  owls  hoot ;  and  the  very  trees 

Have  something  to  say  to  every  breeze  ! " 

The  paths  were  few  and  the  ways  were  rude 
In  the  depths  of  that  virgin  solitude. 
The  Indian's  trail  and  the  hunter's  tracks, 
The  trees  scarred  deep  by  the  settler's  axe, 
Or  a  cow-path  leading  to  the  creek, — 
These  were  the  signs  he  had  to  seek  ; 
Save  where,  it  may  be,  he  chanced  to  hit 
The  Crown  Point  road  and  could  follow  it — 
The  road  by  the  British  troops  hewn  out 
Under  General  Amherst  in  fifty-nine. 
When  he  drove  the  French  from  the  old  redoubt, 
Nor  waited  to  give  the  countersign  ! 

The  streams  were  many  and  swift  and  clear  ; 
But  there  was  no  bridge,  or  far  or  near. 
It  was  midnight  when  he  paused  to  hear 
At  Rutland,  the  roar  of  the  waterfall, 
And  found  a  canoe  by  the  river's  edge, 
In  a  tangled  thicket  of  reeds  and  sedge. 
With  a  shout  and  a  cheer,  on  the  rushing  tide 
He  launched  it  and  flew  to  the  other  side  ; 
Then  giving  his  message,  on  he  sped. 
By  the  light  of  the  pale  stars  overhead, 
Past  the  log  church  below  Pine  Hill, 
And  the  graveyard  opposite.     All  was  still, 
And  the  one  lone  sleeper  lying  there 
Stirred  not  either  for  cry  or  prayer. 

Only  pausing  to  give  the  alarm 
At  rude  log  cabin  and  lonely  farm. 


THE  armorer's   ERRAND  421 

From  hamlet  to  hamlet  he  hurries  along, 
Borne  on  by  a  purpose  deep  and  strong. 
Look  !  there's  a  deer  in  the  forest  glade, 
Stealing  along  like  a  silent  shade  ! 
Hark  to  the  loon  that  cries  and  moans 
With  a  living  grief  in  its  human  tones  ! 
At  Pittsford  the  light  begins  to  grow 
In  the  wakening  east ;  and  drifting  slow, 
From  valley  and  river  and  wildwood,  rise, 
Like  the  smoke  of  a  morning  sacrifice, 
Clouds  of  translucent,  silver  mist. 
Flushing  to  rose  and  amethyst ; 
While  thrush  and  robin  and  bluebird  sing 
Till  the  woods  with  jubilant  music  ring  ! 

It  was  day  at  last !     He  looked  around. 
With  a  firmer  tread  on  the  springing  ground  ; 
**  Now  the  men  will  be  all  a-field,"  said  he, 
* '  And  that  will  save  many  a  step  for  me. 
Each  man  will  be  ready  to  go  ;  but  still, 
I  must  confess,  if  I'd  had  my  will, 
I'd  have  waited  till  after  planting-time. 
For  now  the  season  is  in  its  prime. 
The  young  green  leaves  of  the  oak-tree  here 
Are  just  the  size  of  a  squirrel's  ear  ; 
And  I've  known  no  rule,  since  I  was  born, 
Safer  than  that  for  planting  corn  !  " 

He  threaded  the  valleys,  he  climbed  the  hills. 
He  forded  the  rivers,  he  leaped  the  rills, 
While  still  to  his  call,  like  minute-men 
Booted  and  spurred,  from  mount  and  glen, 
The  settlers  rallied.     But  on  he  went 
Like  an  arrow  shot  from  a  bow,  unspent, 
Down  the  long  vale  of  the  Otter  to  where 


422  THE   ARMORER  S   ERRAND 

The  might  of  the  waterfall  thundered  in  air  ; 

Then  across  to  the  lake,  six  leagues  and  more, 

Where  Hand's  Cove  lay  in  the  bending  shore. 

The  goal  was  reached.     He  dropped  to  the  ground 

In  a  deep  ravine,  without  word  or  sound  ; 

And  Sleep,  the  restorer,  bade  him  rest 

Like  a  weary  child,  on  the  earth's  brown  breast. 

At  midnight  he  woke  with  a  quick  heart -beat, 

And  sprang  with  a  will  to  his  throbbing  feet ; — 

For  armed  men  swarmed  in  the  dim  ravine. 

And  Ethan  Allen,  as  proud  of  mien 

As  a  king  on  his  throne,  smiled  down  on  him. 

While  he  stretched  and  straightened  each  stiffened  limb. 

**Nay,  nay,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  take  your  rest, 

As  a  knight  who  has  done  his  chief's  behest !  " 

"  Not  yet !  "  cried  the  armorer.     "  Where's  my  gun  ? 

A  knight  fights  on  till  the  field  is  won  !  " 

And  into  Fort  Ti,  ere  dawn  of  day. 

He  stormed  with  his  comrades  to  share  the  fray  ! 


FORESHADOWINGS 

Wind  of  the  winter  night, 
Under  the  starry  skies 
Somewhere  my  lady  bright, 

Slumbering  lies. 
Wrapped  in  calm  maiden  dreams, 
Where  the  pale  moonlight  streams, 

Softly  she  sleeps. 

I  do  not  know  her  face, 

Pure  as  the  lonely  star 
That  in  yon  darkling  space 

Shineth  afar  ; 
Never  with  soft  command 
Touched  I  her  willing  hand, 

Kissed  I  her  lips. 

I  have  not  heard  her  voice, 

I  do  not  know  her  name  ; 
Yet  doth  my  heart  rejoice, 

Owning  her  claim  ; 
Yet  am  I  true  to  her  ; 
All  that  is  due  to  her 

Sacred  I  keep. 

Never  a  thought  of  me 

Troubles  her  soft  repose  ; 
Courant  of  mine  may  be 

Lily  nor  rose.  ^ 


424  FORESHADOWINGS 

They  may  not  bear  to  her 
This  heart's  fond  prayer  to  her, 
Yet — she  is  mine. 

Wind  of  the  winter  night, 

Over  the  fields  of  snow, 
Over  the  hill  so  white, 

Tenderly  blow ! 
Somewhere  red  roses  bloom  ; 
Into  her  warm,  hushed  room, 

Bear  thou  their  breath. 

Whisper — Nay,  nay,  thou  sprite. 

Breathe  thou  no  tender  word  ; 
Wind  of  the  winter  night, 

Die  thou  unheard. 
True  love  shall  yet  prevail, 
Telling  its  own  sweet  tale  : 
Till  then  I  wait. 


WON 

Bird,  by  her  garden  gate 
Singing  thy  happy  song, 

Round  thee  the  listening  leaves 
Joyously  throng. 

Tell  them  that  yesternight 

Under  the  stars  so  bright, 
I  wooed  and  won  her  ! 

Red  rose,  rejoice  with  me  ! 

Swing  all  thy  censers  low, 
Bid  each  fair  bud  of  thine 

Hasten  to  blow. 
Lift  every  glowing  cup 
Brimming  with  sweetness  up, 

For — I  have  won  her! 

Wind,  bear  the  tidings  far, 
Far  over  hill  and  dale  ; 

Let  every  breeze  that  blows 
Swell  the  glad  tale. 

River,  go  tell  the  sea. 

Boundless  and  glad  and  free, 
That  I  have  won  her  ! 

Stars,  ye  who  saw  the  blush 
Steal  o'er  her  lovely  face. 
When  first  her  tender  lips 


426  WON 


Granted  me  grace, 
Who  can  with  her  compare, 
Queen  of  the  maidens  rare  ? 

Yet — I  have  won  her  ! 

Sun,  up  yon  azure  height 
Treading  thy  lofty  way, 

Ruler  of  sea  and  land, 
King  of  the  Day — 

Where'er  thy  banners  fly, 

Who  is  so  blest  as  I  ? 
I — who  have  won  her  ! 

Oh,  heart  and  soul  of  mine, 
Make  ye  the  temple  clean, 

Make  all  the  cloisters  pure 
Seen  and  unseen ! 

Bring  fragrant  balm  and  myrrh, 

Make  the  shrine  meet  for  her, 
Now  ye  have  won  her  ! 


BAPTISM   OF   FIRE 

Happy  birds  caroling  love-songs,  winds  in  the  tree-tops  at 

play, 
Earth,  like  an  Eden,  rejoicing  in  the  beautiful  gladness  of 

May  ! 

Over  the  mountains  a  splendor  of  crimson  and  amethyst 

swept : 
Gray  mists  stole  up  from  the  valley,  the  dense  shadows  after 

them  crept. 

Down  the  green  aisles   of  the  orchard,  pink-white  with  the 

promise  of  bloom, 
Stood  the  apple-trees,  wooing  already  the  brown  bees  with 

wealth  of  perfume. 

Then  sounded  the  blast  of  a  trumpet,  like  the  cry  of  a  soul 

in  pain, 
Crashing   of  thunder-bolts  warring  with   the   hosts   of  the 

scourging  rain. 

Till  when   the   raging  battalions  swept   on   with  resistless 

sway. 
Prone  in  the  path  of  the  tempest  the  pride  of  the  orchard 

lay! 

"0  beautiful  buds  close  folded,  that  never  will  bloom  !  "  I 

cried, 
"  Alas  for  the  unfulfilment,  alas  for  the  bhss  denied  !  " 


428  BAPTISM   OF   FIRE 

But  filling  my  arms  with  the  branches,  I  carried  them  in, 

where  the  fire 
Blazed  on  the  glowing  hearth-stone  like  a  sacrificial  pyre. 

And  into  the  flames  I  tossed  them,  when  before  my  startled 

eyes, 
As  in  a  miraculous  vision,  shone  a  marvel,  a  surprise. 

In  the  heart  of  the  fiery  splendor  the  pale  buds,  one  by  one, 
Opened  to  heat  of  the  burning  as  to  kiss  of  the  summer 
sun ! 


AT  THE   FEAST 

*'And  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  is  Time." 

When  the  hour  has  come  and  the  servants  wait 
The  tramp  of  steeds  at  the  castle  gate, 
When  the  lamps  aglow  in  the  banquet-hall 
Like  a  thousand  stars  burn  over  all, 
When  the  board  is  spread  and  the  feast  is  set, 
And  the  dew  on  the  roses  lingers  yet, 

Whom  shall  the  Master  summon 

To  sit  at  his  right  hand  ? 

Let  the  music  soar  to  the  vaulted  roof, 
Let  the  flute-notes  swell,  alow,  aloof, 
While  chief  and  retainer  alike  await 
The  Lord  of  the  Castle  who  cometh  late  ; 
The  guests  are  bidden,  the  red  wine  flows, 
But  not  the  wisest  among  them  knows 

Whom  the  Master  shall  summon 

To  sit  at  his  right  hand  ! 

For  the  Lord  of  the  Castle,  who  cometh  late. 
When  he  comes,  at  length,  in  pomp  and  state, 
And  with  glitter  of  mail,  and  clang  of  sword. 
Strides  to  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  board, 
Oft-times  reverses  the  order  set. 
Nor  beckons  to  crown  or  coronet ! 

Whom  he  will  the  Master  summons 

To  sit  at  his  right  hand ! 


OVER   AND   OVER 

"  Just  the  same  thing  over  and  over  !  " 
But  that  is  the  way  of  the  world,  my  dear  ; 

Over  and  over,  over  and  over. 

Old  things  repeated  from  year  to  year ! 

Hear  what  the  sun  saith  :  *'  Patient  still, 
The  vaulted  heavens  I  climb  and  climb, 

Over  and  over  with  tireless  will, 
Day  after  day  till  the  end  of  time  ! 

"  Never  a  pause  and  never  a  rest ; 

Yet  every  morning  the  earth  is  new, 
And  ever  the  clouds  in  the  golden  west 

Have  a  fresh  glory  shining  through." 

Hear  what  the  grass  saith  :  "  Up  the  hills 
And  through  the  orchard  I  creep  and  creep, 

Over  the  meadows,  and  where  the  rills 
Laugh  in  the  shadows  cool  and  deep. 

**  Every  spring  it  is  just  the  same  ! 

And  because  it  is,  I  am  sure  to  see 
The  oriole's  flash  of  vivid  flame 

In  the  pink-white  bloom  of  the  apple-tree." 

Hear  what  dear  Love  saith  :  "  Ah,  I  hear 
The  same  old  story  over  and  over  ; 


OVER   AND   OVER  43 1 

Mother  and  maiden  year  by  year 
Whisper  it  still  to  child  and  lover  ! 

"  But  sweeter  it  grows  from  age  to  age, 

The  song  begotten  so  long  ago, 
When  first  man  came  to  his  heritage, 

And  walked  with  God  in  the  even-glow.** 


A  LISTENING   BIRD 

A  LITTLE  bird  sat  on  an  apple-tree, 
And  he  was  as  hoarse  as  hoarse  could  be  ; 
He  preened  and  he  prinked,  and  he  ruffled  his  throat, 
But  from  it  there  floated  no  silvery  note. 
"  Not  a  song  can  I  sing,"  sighed  he,  sighed  he — 
*'  Not  a  song  can  I  sing,"  sighed  he. 

In  tremulous  showers  the  apple-tree  shed 
Its  pink  and  white  blossoms  on  his  head ; 
The  gay  sun  shone,  and,  like  jubilant  words, 
He  heard  the  gay  song  of  a  thousand  birds. 
**A11  the  others  can  sing,"  he  dolefully  said — 
"  All  the  others  can  sing,"  he  said. 

So  he  sat  and  he  drooped.     But  as  far  and  wide 
The  music  was  borne  on  the  air's  warm  tide, 
A  sudden  thought  came  to  the  sad  little  bird. 
And  he  lifted  his  head  as  within  him  it  stirred. 
**If  I  cannot  sing,  I  can  listen,"  he  cried  ; 
"  Ho  !  ho  !  I  can  listen  !  "  he  cried. 


THE    FIRST    FIRE 

O  VIRGIN  hearth,  as  chaste  and  cold 
As  one  who  waits  for  burial  mould, 
Whom  shall  we  summon  here  to  keep 
Watch  while  thou  wakest  from  thy  sleep  ? 

Not  from  the  far  sky  spaces,  blue 
As  those  that  Zeus  and  Hera  knew, 
May  Hestia  wing  her  airy  flight, 
Bringer  of  holy  warmth  and  light. 

Pan  may  not  come.     By  stream  and  shore 
Fair  Naiads  dry  their  locks  no  more  ; 
No  Oread  dwells  in  mount  and  glen  ; 
No  Dryad  flees  from  gods  or  men. 

Yet  still  do  forest  voices  clear 

Greet  him  whose  soul  hath  ears  to  hear  ; 

The  murmur  of  the  rustling  pine 

Is  sweet  as  Hermes's  harp  divine. 

The  winds  that  rend  the  mighty  oak 
Clash  loud  as  Ares*s  battle  stroke  ; 
The  maples  toss  each  leafy  crown 
Though  Dian's  votive  wreaths  are  brown. 

Here,  as  to  sacrificial  pyre 
Kindled  with  pure  celestial  fire, 


434  THE   FIRST   FIRE 

Shall  hemlock,  pine,  and  maple  bring 
The  deep  wood's  fragrant  offering, 

As  incense  to  this  household  shrine. 
O  hearth,  no  richer  spoil  were  thine 
If  all  Dodona's  oaks  had  shed 
Their  life-blood  and  for  thee  lay  dead  ! 

Thou  waiting  one,  doth  no  strange  thrill 
Thy  quickening  veins  with  wonder  fill  ? 
Have  the  far-seeing,  prescient  years 
No  presage  for  thy  listening  ears  ? 

Life  hath  its  phases  manifold, 
Yet  still  the  new  repeats  the  old  ; 
There  is  no  truer  truth  than  this  : 
What  was,  is  still  the  thing  that  is. 

Therefore  we  know  that  thou  wilt  hear 
Childhood's  light  laughter  ringing  clear  ; 
The  flow  of  song,  the  breath  of  prayer. 
Whisper  of  love,  and  sigh  of  care. 

Thou  wilt  see  youth  go  forth  to  gauge 
His  being's  lofty  heritage, 
And  manhood  in  the  autumn  eves 
Come  homeward  laden  with  his  sheaves. 

O  life  and  death,  O  joy  and  woe, 

In  mingling  streams  your  tides  shall  flow, 

While  sun  and  storm  alike  fulfil 

The  mandates  of  the  Eternal  Will ! 

Now  bring  the  torch  and  light  the  fire, 
Let  the  swift  flames  leap  high  and  higher. 


THE   FIRST   FIRE  435 

Let  the  red  radiance  stream  afar, 
Dearer  than  glow  of  moon  or  star  ! 

Burn,  burn,  O  fire,  burn  still  and  clear, 
And  fill  the  house  with  warmth  and  cheer  ! 
Soar,  soar,  O  fire,  so  brave,  so  bright. 
And  souls  shall  soar  to  share  thy  flight  1 


MIDNIGHT    CHIMES 

Noel!   Noel!   Noel!   Noel! 

Down  yon  lonely  height 
Hear  the  joyous  summons  pealing 

Through  the  starry  night. 
Noel!   Noel!   Noel!   Noel! 

Ring  the  Christmas  bells  ; 
From  the  church-tower  on  the  hill 

Clear  the  music  swells. 

Far  and  near  the  listening  mountains 

Bend  to  catch  the  strain, 
Dome,  and  peak,  and  shadowy  fastness 

Join  the  glad  refrain, — 
Noel!   Noel!   All  the  pine-trees 

Feel  a  subtile  thrill, 
And  the  hemlock  groves,  responsive, 

Whisper  and  are  still. 

Noel !  Noel!   Through  the  valley 

Where  the  river  goes 
In  and  out  between  the  meadows, 

Soft  the  music  flows. 
And  the  river,  dumbly  sleeping, 

Feels  its  cold  heart  beat 
Answering  to  the  pulsing  rhythm 

Of  the  anthem  sweet. 


MIDNIGHT   CHIMES  437 

Noel!   Noel !    Hark  !  a  rustling 

On  the  frosty  air, 
Where  the  aspens,  all  a-quiver, 

Bend  their  branches  bare  ; 
Airy  birches,  stately  maples, 

Black  against  the  sky. 
Wave  their  leafless  boughs  like  banners 

When  a  king  goes  by. 

Noel !   Noel  I   Sweet-breathed  oxen, 

In  the  farm -yard  close. 
Lift  their  horned  heads  to  listen, 

Startled  from  repose  ; 
Then  they  sleep  as  slept  the  white  flocks 

On  Judea's  hills. 
While  again  the  olden  glory 

Earth  with  rapture  fills. 

Noel!   Noel!   Little  children 

In  their  soft  nests  smile, 
Dreaming  of  fair  choiring  angels 

Floating  near  the  while  ; 
Voiceless  snow-birds,  half  awakened, 

Stir  their  drowsy  wings 
With,  mayhap,  a  vague,  unconscious 

Sense  of  heavenly  things. 

Noel!   Noel!   In  the  church-yard, 

Where  the  low  graves  lie. 
Light  winds  bear  the  strains  melodious, 

Soft  as  spirit's  sigh  ; 
Do  ye  hear  it,  O  ye  sleepers, 

As  it  dies  and  swells  ? 
Hear  your  ears  the  mystic  music 

Of  earth's  Christmas  bells  ? 


MY    LADY    SLEEP 

In  cool  gray  cloisters  walks  my  Lady  Sleep, 
Telling  her  smooth  beads  slowly,  one  by  one  ; 

Along  the  wall  the  stealthy  shadows  creep  ; 

Night  holds  the  world  in  thrall,  and  day  is  done. 

Sometimes,  while  winds  sigh  soft  above  her  head, 
Down  the  long  garden  path  my  Lady  strays, 

And  kneeling  by  the  pansies'  purple  bed, 
Counts  the  small  faces  in  the  moonlit  haze. 

Sometimes  she  lies  upon  the  silver  sands. 

Following  the  sea-birds,  as  they  wheel  and  dip  ; 

Or  idly  clasps,  in  still  persistent  hands, 

The  shining  grains  that  through  her  fingers  slip. 

Or  paces  long,  with  flowing  locks  all  wet, 
Where  the  low  thunder  booms  forevermore, 

And  the  great  waves  no  man  hath  numbered  yet. 
Roll,  one  by  one,  to  break  upon  the  shore. 

Sometimes  she  counts  the  brightening  twilight  stars. 
The  daisies  smiling  in  the  meadow  grass, 

The  slow  kine  trailing  through  the  pasture  bars, 
The  white  sheep  loitering  in  the  mountain  pass. 

But  evermore  her  hands  are  cool  and  calm — 
Her  quiet  voice  is  ever  hushed  and  low  ; 


MY   LADY   SLEEP  439 

And  evermore  her  tranquil  lips  breathe  balm, 
And  silent  as  a  dream  her  garments  flow. 

She  comes,  she  goes — whence,  whither — who  can  tell  ? 

Angels  of  God,  do  ye  her  secret  keep  ? 
Know  ye  the  talisman,  the  sign,  the  spell. 

The  mystic  password  of  my  Lady  Sleep  ? 


THE    KING'S    TOUCH 

"  The  King's  touch — there  is  magic  in  it ! 
When  the  early  dawn  in  the  east  is  red, 
And  I  hear  the  song  of  the  lark  and  linnet, 
I  will  rise  like  a  wraith  from  my  sleepless  bed. 

*'  Then  wrapped  in  a  cloak  of  hodden  gray 
I  will  steal  like  a  shadow  over  the  hills. 
And  down  where  the  pendulous  willows  sway, 
And  the  rich,  ripe  grape  its  scent  distils — 

*'  Till  I  reach  the  edge  of  the  forest  wide  ; 

And  there  will  I  bide,  where  the  still  shades  are, 
Till  the  King  and  his  huntsmen  forth  do  ride, 
And  the  sweet  wild  horn  rings  out  afar. 

*'  I  will  wait  and  listen  until  I  see 

The  nodding  plumes  of  the  merry  men 
And  the  glancing  pennants  floating  free, 
A  gleam  of  light  in  the  lonely  glen. 

"  Then  low  in  the  dust  at  his  royal  feet 

I  will  kneel  for  the  touch  of  his  healing  hand  ; 
Perchance  he  will  give  ere  I  entreat. 
Before  I  cry  he  may  understand  ! 

**  The  King's  proud  Leech  will  be  there  I  trow — 
A  wise  old  man  with  a  reverent  air — 
And  the  laughing  courtiers,  row  on  row  ; 
Yet  not  unto  them  will  I  make  my  prayer. 


THE   KING'S   TOUCH  441 

"  'Tis  the  King,  the  King,  who  will  know  it  all. 
His  eye  will  discover  the  wound  concealed  ; 
He  will  bend  to  hear  me  before  I  call. 
Whom  the  King  touches  shall  be  healed  !  " 

Was  the  maiden  cured  ?     Ah,  none  can  tell ! 

She  was  dust  and  ashes  long  ago, 
With  the  proud  young  king  and  his  leech  as  well, 

And  the  smiling  courtiers,  row  on  row. 

But  whether  the  dawn  in  the  east  be  red, 
Or  whether  the  stars  bloom  out  afield. 

This  truth  remaineth,  tho'  myths  lie  dead  : 
**  Whom  the  King  touches  shall  be  healed  !  " 


"BY   DIVERS   PATHS" 

Unknown  to  me  thy  name  or  state, 

Save  that  a  mantle  saintly 
Of  rare  and  sweet  unworldliness 

Enfolded  thee  most  quaintly. 

We  came  and  went  by  divers  paths  ; 

We  planned  nor  time,  nor  meeting  ; 
We  spake  not,  save  by  nod,  or  smile, 

Or  glance  of  casual  greeting. 

Yet,  led  by  some  strange  chance  or  fate 

To-day  by  ruined  altars, 
Where,  strained  through  clustering  ivy  leaves, 

The  pitying  sunshine  falters  ; 

To-morrow  where  your  blue  lakes  shine, 
And  bloom  your  English  daisies  ; 

Or  on  Helvellyn's  lofty  crest 
The  sunset  splendor  blazes  ; 

Or  where  deep  organ-thunders  roll 
Through  grand  cathedral  arches. 

And  stately  Durham's  triple  towers 
Look  toward  the  Scottish  marches  ; 

Thus,  here  and  there,  we  met,  nor  knew 

Each  other's  name  nor  mission, 
The  while  a  subtile  kinship  grew 

To  silent  recognition. 


'*  BY   DIVERS   PATHS  "  443 

At  length  where  stretched  a  princely  street 

In  long,  receding  splendor, 
Down  which  the  golden  sunshine  threw 

A  radiance  warm  and  tender ; 

While  far  above  us,  frowning,  hung 

A  castle  old  and  hoary, 
Stern  on  its  battlemented  heights 

Renowned  in  song  and  story  ; 

And  near  us,  throned  in  marble  state, 

O'er  time  and  death  victorious, 
He  sat,  the  magic  of  whose  pen 

Made  king  and  castle  glorious — 

There,  face  to  face,  once  more  we  met, 

Like  leaves  in  autumn  weather. 
That  blown  afar  by  varying  winds. 

Yet  drift  again  together. 

A  look,  a  smile,  and  **  Is  it  thou  ?  " 

A  little  low,  sweet  laughter, 
Just  one  close  clasp  of  meeting  hands. 

And  then,  a  moment  after, 

Between  us  swept  the  surging  crowd 

And  we  were  borne  asunder. 
O,  friend  unknown,  in  what  far  land 

Will  we  next  meet,  I  wonder  ? 


THE   BLIND   BIRD'S   NEST 
**  The  nest  of  the  blind  bird  is  built  by  God." — Turkish  Proverb. 

Thou  who  dost  build  the  blind  bird's  nest, 

Am  I  not  blind  ? 
Each  bird  that  flyeth  east  or  west 

The  track  can  find. 

Each  bird  that  flies  from  north  to  south 

Knows  the  far  way  ; 
From  mountain's  crest  to  river's  mouth 

It  does  not  stray. 

Not  one  in  all  the  lengthening  land, 

In  all  the  sky, 
Or  by  the  ocean's  silver  strand, 

Is  blind  as  I  ! 

And  dost  Thou  build  the  blind  bird's  nest  ? 

Build  Thou  for  me 
Some  shelter  where  my  soul  may  rest 

Secure  in  Thee. 

Close  clinging  to  the  bending  bough, 

Bind  it  so  fast 
It  shall  not  loose  if  high  or  low 

Blows  the  loud  blast. 


THE   BLIND   BIRD'S   NEST  445 

If  fierce  storms  break,  and  the  wild  rain 

Comes  pelting  in, 
Cover  the  shrinking  nest,  restrain 

The  furious  din. 

At  sultry  noontide,  when  the  air 

Trembles  with  heat, 
Draw  close  the  leafy  covert  where 

Cool  shadows  meet. 

And  when  night  falleth,  dark  and  chill, 

Let  one  fair  star, 
Love's  star  all  luminous  and  still, 

Shine  from  afar. 

Thou  who  dost  build  the  blind  bird's  nest 

Build  Thou  for  me  ; 
So  shall  my  being  find  its  rest 

Forevermore  in  Thee. 


TWO   PATHS 

A  PATH  across  a  meadow  fair  and  sweet, 

Where  clover-blooms  the  lithesome  grasses  greet, 

A  path  worn  smooth  by  his  impetuous  feet. 

A  straight,  swift  path — and  at  its  end,  a  star 
Gleaming  behind  the  lilac's  fragrant  bar, 
And  her  soft  eyes,  more  luminous  by  far  ! 


A  path  across  the  meadow  fair  and  sweet. 

Still  sweet  and  fair  where  blooms  and  grasses  meet- 

A  path  worn  smooth  by  his  reluctant  feet. 

A  long,  straight  path — and,  at  its  end,  a  gate 
Behind  whose  bars  she  doth  in  silence  wait 
To  keep  the  tryst,  if  he  comes  soon  or  late  ! 


ST.   JOHN'S   EVE 

The  veil  is  thin  between 

The  seen  and  the  unseen — 
Thinner  to-night  than  the  transparent  air  ; 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still, 

Save  when  from  some  far  hill 
Floateth  the  nightbird's  unavailing  prayer  ; 

Up  from  the  mountain  bars 

Climb  the  slow,  patient  stars, 
Only  to  faint  in  moonlight  white  and  rare  ! 

Ere  earth  had  grown  too  wise 

To  commerce  with  the  skies, 
On  this  midsummer  night  the  men  of  old 

Believed  the  dead  drew  near, 

Believed  that  they  could  hear 
Voices  long  silent  speaking  from  the  mould, 

Believed  whoever  slept 

Unearthly  vigil  kept 
Where  his  own  death-knell  should  at  last  be  tolled. 

In  solemn  midnight  marches 

Beneath  dark  forest  arches 
They  fancied  that  their  hungry  souls  found  God  ; 

His  angels  clad  in  light 

Stole  softly  through  the  night, 
Leaving  no  impress  on  the  yielding  sod, 

And  bore  to  mortal  ears 

Tidings  from  other  spheres, 
The  undiscovered  way  no  man  hath  trod. 


448  ST.    JOHN'S    EVE 

Ah  !  what  if  it  were  true  ? 

Then  would  I  call  ye  who 
Have  one  by  one  beyond  my  vision  flown  ; 

I  would  set  wide  the  door 

Ye  enter  now  no  more 
Crying,  *'  Come  in  from  out  the  void  unknown! 

Come  as  ye  came  of  old 

Laden  with  love  untold  " — 
Hark  !  was  that  nothing  but  the  night  wind's  moan  ? 


A   LITTLE  SONG 

Little  song  I  fain  would  sing, 

Why  dost  thou  elude  me  so  ? 
Like  a  bird  upon  the  wing, 

Sailing  high,  sailing  low, 
Yet  forever  out  of  reach, 

Thou  dost  vex  me  beyond  measure, 
Unallured  by  prayer  or  speech, 

Waiting  thine  own  time  and  pleasure  ! 

Well  I  know  thee,  tricksy  sprite — 

I  could  call  thee  by  thy  name  ; 
1  have  wooed  thee  day  and  night. 

Yet  thou  wilt  not  own  my  claim. 
Hark  !  thou'rt  hovering  even  now 

In  the  soft  still  air  above  me — 
Fantasy  or  dream  art  thou, 

That  my  heart's  cry  cannot  move  thee  ? 

Little  song  I  never  sang, 

Thou  art  sweeter  than  the  strain 
That  through  starry  mazes  rang, 

First-born  child  of  joy  and  pain. 
I  shall  sing  thee  not ;  but  surely 

From  some  all-compelling  voice 
Swelling  high,  serenely,  purely, 

I  shall  hear  thee  and  rejoice ! 


THE  PRINCES'   CHAMBER 

I  STOOD  upon  Tower  Hill, 

Bright  were  the  skies  and  gay, 
Yet  a  cloud  and  a  sudden  chill 

Passed  over  the  summer  day — 
A  thrill,  and  a  nameless  dread, 

As  of  one  who  waits  alone 
Where  gather  the  silent  dead 

Under  the  charnel  stone. 

For  before  my  shrinking  eyes 

They  glided,  one  by  one. 
The  great,  the  good,  the  wise. 

Who  here  to  death  were  done  ; 
Sinners  and  saints  they  came 

With  blood-stained  garments  on, 
Reckless  of  praise  or  blame. 

Or  battles  lost  or  won. 

Then  over  the  moat  I  passed 

And  paused  at  the  Traitors'  Gate  ; 
Did  I  hear  a  trumpet's  blast, 

Forerunner  of  deadly  fate  ? 
Lo  !  up  the  stairs  from  the  river. 

Where  the  sombre  shadows  crept, 
With  none  to  help  or  deliver, 

Kings,  queens,  and  princes  swept ! 


THE  PRINCES'   CHAMBER  45 1 

O,  some  of  those  royal  dames 

Drooped,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
And  mien  of  one  who  claims 

Close  kindred  with  despair  ! 
And  some  were  proud  and  cold, 

With  eyes  that  blazed  like  stars, 
As  under  that  archway  old 

They  passed  to  their  prison-bars. 

To  prison-bars  or  death  ! 

Fair,  hapless  Anne  Boleyn  ; 
That  haughty  maid,  Elizabeth  ; 

Northumberland's  pale  queen  ; 
Margaret  Plantagenet, 

Her  gray  locks  floating  wild — 
How  the  line  lengthens  yet, 

Knight,  prelate,  statesman,  child  ! 

Fiercely  the  black  portcullis 

Frowned  as  I  onward  went ; 
The  Bloody  Tower  is  this — 

Strong  tower  of  dread  portent ! 
**  Show  me  the  Princes'  Chamber," 

To  the  Yeoman  Guard  I  said  ; 
O,  the  stairs  were  steep  to  clamber, 

And  the  rough  vault  dark  o'erhead ! 

No  sigh  in  the  sunny  room. 

No  moan  from  the  groined  roof, 
No  wail  of  expectant  doom 

Echoed   alow,  aloof! 
But  instead  a  mother  sang 

To  a  child  upon  her  knee, 
Whose  peals  of  laughter  rang 

Like  sweet  bells  mad  with  glee. 


452  THE   PRINCES'    CHAMBER 

Sunshine  for  murky  air, 

Smiles  for  the  sob  of  pain, 
Joy  for  dark  despair, 

Hope  where  sweet  hope  was  slain ! 
"  Art  thou  happy  here,"  I  cried, 

•*  Where  once  was  lonely  woe, 
And  the  royal  children  died, — 

Murdered  so  long  ago  ?  " 

She  smiled.     "  O,  lady,  yes  ! 

Earth  hath  forgotten  them  ; 
See  how  my  roses  press. 

Blooming  on  each  fair  stem  ! 
The  princes,  they  sleep  sound, 

But  love  nor  joy  are  dead  ; 
I  fear  no  haunted  ground, 

I  have  my  child,"  she  said. 


WONDERLAND 

Wonderland  is  here  and  there  ; 
Wonderland  is  everywhere  ; 
Fly  not  then  to  east  or  west 
On  some  far,  uncertain  quest. 

Seek  not  India  nor  Japan, 
Nor  the  city  Ispahan, 
Where  to-day  the  shadows  brood 
Over  lonely  Zendarood. 

Somewhere  smileth  far  Cathay 
Through  the  long  resplendent  day  ; 
Somewhere,  moored  in  purple  seas, 
Sleep  the  fair  Hesperides. 

Somewhere,  in  vague  realms  remote 
Over  which  strange  banners  float, 
Lies,  all  bathed  in  silver  gleams, 
The  dear  Wonderland  of  dreams. 

Yet  no  need  to  sail  in  ships 
Where  the  blue  sea  dips  and  dips, 
Nor  on  wings  of  cloud  to  fly 
Where  the  haunts  of  faery  lie. 

For  by  miracle  of  morn 
Each  successive  day  is  born  ; 


454  WONDERLAND 

And  wherever  shines  the  sun, 
There  enchanted  rivers  run  ! 

Would  you  go  to  Wonderland  ? 
Lo  !  it  lieth  close  at  hand ; 
Wonderland  is  wheresoe'er 
Eyes  can  see  and  ears  can  hear  I 


IN   A   GALLERY 

(ANTWERP,  1891) 

The  Virgin  floating  on  the  silver  moon  ; 

Madonna  Mary  with  her  holy  child  ; 

Pale  Christs  on  shuddering  crosses  lifted  high  ; 

Sweet  angel  faces,  bending  from  the  blue  ; 

Saints  rapt  from  earth  in  ecstasy  divine, 

And  martyrs  all  unmindful  of  their  pain  ; 

Bold,  mail  clad  knights  ;  fair  ladyes  whom  they  loved  ; 

Brown  fisher-boys  and  maidens  ;  harvest-fields, 

Where  patient  women  toiled  ;  with  here  and  there 

The  glint  of  summer  skies  and  summer  seas, 

And  the  red  glow  of  humble,  household  fires ! 

Breathless  I  stood  and  silent,  even  as  one 
Who,  seeing  all,  sees  nothing.     Then  a  face 
Down  the  long  gallery  drew  me  as  a  star  ; 
A  winsome,  beckoning  face,  with  bearded  lips 
Just  touched  with  dawning  laughter,  and  clear  eyes 
That  kept  their  own  dear  secret,  smiling  still 
With  a  soft  challenge.     Dark  robes  lost  in  shade, 
Laces  at  throat  and  wrist,  an  ancient  chair. 
And  a  long,  slender  hand  whose  fingers  held 
Loosely  a  parchment  scroll — and  that  was  all. 
Yet  from  those  high,  imperial  presences, 
Those  lofty  ones  uplifted  from  dear  earth 
With  all  its  loves  and  longings,  back  I  turned 


456  IN   A    (GALLERY 

Again  and  yet  again,  lured  by  the  smile 

That  called  me  like  a  voice,  "  Come  hither,  friend !  " 

"  Simon  de  Vos,"  thus  saith  the  catalogue, 
And  *•  Painted  by  himself." 

Three  hundred  years 
Thou  hast  been  dust  and  ashes.     I  who  write 
And  they  who  read,  we  know  another  world 
From  that  thine  eyes  looked  out  on.    Wouldst  thou  smile, 
Even  as  here  thou  smilest,  if  to-day 
Thou  wert  still  of  us  ?     O,  "thou  joyous  one, 
Whose  light,  half-mocking  laughter  hath  outlived 
So  much  earth  held  more  precious,  let  thy  lips 
Open  and  answer  me  !     Whence  was  it  born, 
The  radiance  of  thy  tender,  sparkling  face  ? 
What  manner  of  man  wert  thou  ?     For  the  books 
Of  the  long  generations  do  not  tell ! 
Art  thou  a  name,  a  smile,  and  nothing  more  ? 
What  dreams  and  visions  hadst  thou  ?     Other  men 
Would  pose  as  heroes  ;  would  go  grandly  down 
To  coming  ages  in  the  martyr's  role  ; 
Or,  if  perchance  they're  poets,  set  their  woes 
To  wailing  music,  that  the  world  may  count 
Their  heart-throbs  in  the  chanting  of  a  song. 
Immortal  thou,  by  virtue  of  one  smile  ! 


IN   MARBLE   PRAYER 

(CANTERBURY,     1891) 

So  still,  so  still  they  lie 
As  centuries  pass  by, 

Their  pale  hands  folded  in  imploring  prayer^; 
They  never  lift  their  eyes 
In  sudden,  sweet  surprise  ; 

The  wandering  winds  stir  not  their  heavy  hair 
Forth  from  their  close -sealed  lips 
Nor  moan,  nor  laughter,  slips, 

Nor  lightest  sigh  to  wake  the  entranced  air ! 

Yet  evermore  they  pray  ! 

We  creatures  of  a  day 
Live,  love,  and  vanish  from  the  gaze  of  men  ; 

Nations  arise  and  fall  ; 

Oblivion's  heavy  pall 
Hides  kings  and  princes  from  all  human  ken, 

While  these  in  marble  state, 

From  age  to  age  await 
The  rolling  thunder  of  the  last  amen  ! 

Not  in  dim  crypts  alone, 
Or  aisles  of  fretted  stone. 
Where  high  cathedral  altars  gleam  afar  ; 
And  the  red  light  streams  down 
On  mitre  and  on  crown, 


458  IN   MARBLE   PRAYER 

Till  each  proud  jewel  blazes  like  a  star  ; 
But  where  the  tall  grass  waves 
O'er  long-forgotten  graves, 

Their  silent  worship  no  rude  sounds  can  mar  I 

Dost  Thou  not  hear  and  heed  ? 
O,  in  Earth's  utmost  need 

Wilt  Thou  not  hearken,  Thou  who  didst  create  ? 
Not  for  themselves  they  pray 
Whose  woes  have  passed  for  aye  ; 

For  us,  for  us,  before  Thy  throne  they  wait ! 
Thou  Sovereign  Lord  of  All, 
On  whom  they  mutely  call, 

Hear  Thou  and  answer  from  thine  high  estate  ! 


NOCTURNE 

0  BIRD  beneath  the  midnight  sky ! 
As  on  my  lonely  couch  I  lie, 

1  hear  thee  singing  in  the  dark — 

Why  sing  not  I  ? 

No  star-gleams  meet  thy  wakeful  eye  ; 
No  fond  mate  answers  to  thy  cry  ; 
No  other  voice,  through  all  the  dark, 
Makes  sweet  reply. 

Yet  never  skylark  soaring  high 
Where  sun-lit  clouds  rejoicing  lie, 
Sang  as  thou  singest  in  the  dark. 
Not  mute  as  I ! 

O  lone,  sweet  spirit !  tell  me  why 
So  far  thy  ringing  love -notes  fly, 
While  other  birds,  hushed  by  the  dark, 
Are  mute  as  I  ? 

No  prophecy  of  morn  is  nigh  ; 
Yet  as  the  sombre  hours  glide  by, 
Bravely  thou  singest  in  the  dark — 
Why  sing  not  1  ? 


COME    WHAT    MAY 

Come  what  may — 
Though  what  remaineth  I  may  not  know, 
Nor  how  many  times  the  rose  may  blow 
For  my  delight,  or  whether  the  years 
Shall  be  set  to  the  chime  of  falling  tears, 
Or  go  on  their  way  rejoicing — 

Yet,  come  what  may, 

I  have  had  my  day  ! 

Come  what  may — 
The  lurid  storm  or  the  sunset  peace, 
The  lingering  pain  or  the  swift  release, 
Lonely  vigils  and  watchings  long, 
Passionate  prayer  or  soaring  song, 
Or  silence  deep  and  golden — 

Still,  come  what  may, 

I  have  had  my  day  ! 

Come  what  may, 
I  have  known  the  fiery  heart  of  youth, 
Its  rapturous  joy,  its  bitter  ruth  ; 
I  have  felt  the  thrill  of  the  eager  doer. 
The  quick  heart-throb  of  the  swift  pursuer, 
The  flush  of  glad  possession — 

And,  come  what  may, 

I  have  had  my  day  I 


COME   WHAT   MAY  461 

Come  what  may, 
I  have  learned  that  out  of  the  night  is  born 
The  mystic  flower  of  the  early  morn  ; 
I  have  learned  that  after  the  frost  of  pain 
The  lily  of  peace  will  bloom  again, 
And  the  rose  of  consolation. 

Then,  come  what  may, 

I  have  had  my  day  I 


NUREMBERG 

Over  the  wide,  tumultuous  sea 
In  tranced  hours  I  dream  of  thee, 
Ancient  city  of  song  and  myth, 
Whose  name  is  a  name  to  conjure  with, 

And  make  the  heart  throb,  Nuremberg  I 

I  see  thee  fair  in  the  white  moonlight ; 
The  stars  are  asleep  at  noon  of  night, 
Save  one  that  between  St.  Lawrence'  spires 
Kindles  aloft  its  silver  fires — 

A  flaming  cresset,  Nuremberg  ! 

Leaning  over  thy  river's  brim 
Crowd  the  red  roofs  and  oriels  dim, 
While  under  its  bridges  glide  and  gleam 
The  rippling  waves  of  a  silent  stream. 
Sparkling  and  darkling,  Nuremberg ! 

Oh,  the  charm  of  each  haunted  street, 
Ways  where  Beauty  and  Duty  meet; 
Sculptured  miracles  soaring  free 
In  temple  and  mart  for  all  to  see, 

Wherever  the  light  falls,  Nuremberg! 

Even  thy  beggars  lift  their  eyes, 
Finding  ever  some  new  surprise  ; 
Even  thy  children  pause  from  play, 
To  hear  what  thy  graven  marbles  say. 
Thy  myriad  voices,  Nuremberg  ! 


NUREMBERG  463 

Other  cities  for  crown  and  king 
Wide  their  glorious  banners  fling, 
Lifting  high  on  the  azure  field 
Blazoned  trophies  of  sword  and  shield, 

That  pierce  the  far  skies,  Nuremberg  ! 

But  thou,  O  city  of  old  renown, 
Thou  dost  painter  and  sculptor  crown  ; 
Thou  dost  give  to  the  poet  bays, 
Immortelles  for  the  deathless  lays 

Chanted  for  thee,  fair  Nuremberg ! 

They  are  thy  Lords  of  High  Degree, 
Marvels  of  art  who  wrought  for  thee, 
Toiling  on  with  tireless  will 
Till  the  wondrous  hands  in  death  were  still. 
Being  dead,  they  yet  speak,  Nuremberg! 

They  were  dust  and  ashes  long  ago  ; 
Over  their  graves  the  sweet  winds  blow  ; 
Yet  they  are  alive  whom  men  call  dead — 
This  is  thy  spell,  when  all  is  said  ; 
This  is  thy  glory,  Nuremberg ! 


A    MATER    DOLOROSA 

Then  down  the  street  came  Giacomo,  flushed 

With  wine  and  laughter.    I  can  see  him  now, 

With  Giulio,  Florian,  and  young  Angelo, 

Arms  interlaced,  hands  clasped,  a  roisterous  crew 

Of  merry,  harmless  idlers.    Ah,  so  long. 

So  long  ago  it  was  !     Yet  I  can  see 

Just  how  the  campanile  shone  that  night 

Like  molten  silver,  while  its  carven  saints 

Prayed  in  the  moonlight.     Then  a  shadow  crept 

Over  the  moon's  face  ;  and  it  grew  so  dark 

That  the  red  star  in  Giacomo's  cap 

Paled  and  went  out,  and  Giulio's  shoulder-clasp 

Lost  all  the  lustre  of  its  burnished  gold. 

And  faded  out  of  sight.     Strange,  how  we  lose 

So  much  we  would  remember,  and  yet  keep 

Trifles  like  this  until  the  day  of  doom  ! 

They  had  swept  past  me  where  I  stood  in  shade 

When  Giacomo  turned.     Just  then  the  moon 

Shone  out  again,  illumining  the  place, 

And  he  paused  laughing,  catching  sight  of  me 

There  by  the  fountain. — Nay,  sweet  Signor,  nay  ! 

I  was  young  then,  and  some  said  I  was  fair ; 

But  I  loved  not  Giacomo,  nor  he  me. — 

Back  he  came  crying,  "  Little  one,  take  heed ! 

Know  you  Fra  Alessandro  ?     He  would  have 

A  model  for  his  picture.     Go  you  then 

To-morrow  to  his  studio  and  say 


A   MATER   DOLOROSA  465 

Giacomo  sent  you.     At  the  convent  there, 
Near  Santa  Croce." 

So  I  thither  went 
Early  next  morning,  trembUng  as  I  stole 
Into  the  master's  presence.    A  grave  man 
Of  most  unworldly  aspect,  with  bowed  head 
And  pale  chin  resting  on  his  long,  thin  hand, 
He  sat  before  an  easel,  lost  in  thought. 
*'  Giacomo  sent  me,"  said  I,  creeping  in, 
And  then  stood  breathless.    Swift  as  light  he  turned. 
But  smiled  not,  spoke  not,  while  his  searching  eye 
For  minutes  that  seemed  hours  scanned  my  face, 
Reading  it  line  by  line.     Signor,  it  seemed 
As  if  the  judgment-day  had  come,  and  God 
Sat  on  the  great  white  throne !    At  length  he  spoke, 
Nodding  as  one  content — '*  To-morrow  morn 
I  pray  thee  come  thou  hither.     Canst  thou  bring 
A  little  child  with  thee — some  fair,  sweet  child 
Whose  eyes  are  like  the  morning  ?  " 

Then  I  said. 
Bethinking  me  of  Beppo's  little  boy 
Whose  mother  died  last  week—*'  Yes,  I  will  come 
Surely,  my  father,- and  will  bring  with  me 
The  fairest  child  in  Florence."     "  It  is  well," 
Softly  he  answered,  and  a  sudden  light 
Made  his  pale  face  all  glorious.     At  the  door 
I  paused,  and  looking  backward  saw  him  bow 
Before  the  easel  as  before  a  shrine. 
I  know  not  if  he  prayed,  but  never  saint 
Had  aspect  more  divine. 

Next  day  I  went 
With  little  Nello  to  the  studio. 
Impatiently  the  Frate  greeted  us. 
Palette  in  hand.     **  So  ! — Thou  art  come  at  last  ?  " 
But  as  I  drew  the  cap  from  Nello's  head 


466  A    MATER   DOLOROSA 

And  the  moist  tendrils  of  his  golden  hair 
Fell  softly  on  his  forehead,  he  cried  out  : 
*'  The  boy  is  like  an  angel !     And  thy  face, 
Thy  face,  my  daughter,  I  have  seen  in  dreams, 
But  in  dreams  only.     So,  then,  stand  thou  there, 
And  let  the  boy  sit  throned  upon  thine  arm, 
As  thus,  or  thus." 

The  child  was  half  afraid  ; 
And  round  my  neck  he  clasped  his  clinging  arms, 
Lifting  his  face  to  mine,  a  questioning  face, 
Filled  with  soft,  startled  wonder.     While  I  held 
Him  close  and  soothed  him,  Alessandro  cried, 
*'  O,  hold  him  thus  forever  !     Do  not  stir  ! 
I  paint  a  virgin  for  an  altar-piece. 
And  thou  and  this  fair  child " 

Even  while  he  spoke 
He  turned  back  to  the  easel  ;  but  I  sprang 
From  the  low  pedestal,  and,  with  the  boy 
Still  in  my  arms,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet. 
"  Not  that,  not  that,  my  father  !  "  swift  I  cried, 
While  my  hot  forehead  touched  his  garment's  hem  ; 
"  Not  that,  for  God's  sake  !     Paint  me  otherwise. 
Paint  me  as  martyr,  or  as  Magdalen, 
As  saint,  or  sibyl — whatsoe'er  you  will, 
Only  not  that,  not  that  !  " 

Smiling  he  stooped 
And  raised  me  from  the  ground,  and  took  the  child 
In  unaccustomed  arms  all  tenderly, 
Placing  his  brown  beads  in  the  dimpled  hand. 
"  But  why  '  not  that,'  my  daughter?     Nothing  else 
Ever  paint  I !    Not  saint,  nor  Magdalen, 
Only  the  Virgin  and  her  Holy  Child." 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  it  all — the  light 
Dim  in  cathedral  aisles,  the  kneeling  crowds, 
The  swinging  censers,  candles  burning  clear, 


A   MATER   DOLOROSA  467 

With  flash  of  jewels,  splendor  and  perfume, 

The  high  white  altar,  and  above  a  face, 

My  face,  pale  shining  through  the  scented  gloom 

Like  a  lone  star  !     Then  in  the  hush  a  voice 

Chanted  '*  Hail,  Mary  " — and  my  heart  stood  still. 

I  who  had  been  a  sinner,  could  I  dare 

Thus  to  mock  God  and  man  ?     Low  at  his  feet 

Again  I  fell,  and  there  I  told  him  all 

As  he  had  been  my  soul's  confessor,  poured 

My  very  heart  out.     Signor,  life  is  hard 

And  cruel  to  child-women,  when  the  street 

Is  their  sole  nursing  mother.     I  had  had 

No  friend,  no  home,  save  when  old  Barbara 

In  some  rare  mood  of  pity  let  me  creep 

Under  her  wing  for  shelter.     Then  she  died, 

And  even  that  poor  semblance  of  a  home 

Was  mine  no  longer.     Yet,  as  the  years  went  on, 

Out  of  the  dust  and  moil  I  grew  as  tall 

And  fair  as  lily  in  a  garden  plot. 

Shut  in  by  ivied  cloisters — Let  it  pass  ! — 

God  knows  how  girls  are  tempted  when  false  love 

Comes  with  beguiling  words  and  tender  lips. 

Promising  all  things,  and  their  barren  lives 

Break  into  sudden  bloom  as  when  a  bud 

Unfolds  its  shining  petals  in  the  sun 

And  joys  to  be  a  rose  ! 

No  word  he  spake, 
Fra  Alessandro,  sitting  mute  and  pale. 
But  Nello,  wondering  at  my  sighs  and  tears. 
Dropped  the  brown  rosary  and  thrust  his  hands 
Into  the  shining  masses  of  my  hair. 
Pulling  the  bodkin  out,  and  lifted  up 
My  wet,  wan  face  to  kiss  it     God  is  good  ; 
And  even  in  that  dark  hour  a  thrill  of  joy 
Ran  through  my  soul  as  the  pure  lips  met  mine. 


468  A    MATER    DOLOROSA 

Still  I  knelt,  waiting  judgment,  with  the  child 
Clasped  to  my  bosom,  daring  not  to  raise 
My  eyes  to  the  face  above  me.     Well  I  knew 
It  was  the  priest's  face,  not  the  painter's,  now  ! 
Was  it  his  voice  that  through  the  silence  stole, 
**  A  little  child  shall  lead  them,"  murmuring  low  ? 
Just  for  one  instant  on  my  head  a  hand 
Fell  as  in  benediction.     Then  he  said 
"  Arise,  my  daughter,  and  come  thou  with  me 
Where  bide  the  holy  sisters  of  St.  Clare, 
Ruled  by  their  abbess,  saintliest  of  all 
The  saintly  sisterhood.     By  work  and  prayer, 
Fasting  and  penance,  thou  shalt  purge  thy  soul 
Of  all  iniquity,  and  make  it  clean." 
Startled  I  answered  him — "But  who  will  care 
For  Nello  then  ?     His  mother  died  last  week, 
And  Beppo's  heart  is  buried  in  her  grave — 
He  cares  not  for  the  child,  nor  gives  him  love." 
But  with  a  wide  sweep  of  his  beckoning  arm 
Down  the  long  cloisters  strode  he,  and  across 
The  heated  pavement  of  the  market-place, 
Nor  looked  to  see  if  we  were  following  him 
Until  he  paused  before  the  convent  gate ; 
Then  rang  the  bell,  and  in  the  pause  I  heard 
The  sisters  chanting,  and  grew  faint  with  shame. 
"  Fear  not,  my  child,"  Fra  Alessandro  said. 
"  Here  comes  Jacinta.     Go  you  in  with  her. 
And  straightway  tell  the  abbess  all  the  tale 
Told  unto  me  this  day.     Farewell !  "     The  gate 
Swung  to  with  iron  clang,  and  Nello's  arms 
Half  strangled  me  as  round  my  neck  he  clung, 
Awed  by  the  holy  stillness. 

Since  that  hour 
I  with  the  humble  sisters  of  St.  Clare 
Have  given  myself  to  deeds  of  mercy,  works 


A    MATER   DOLOROSA  469 

Meet  for  repentance,  ministering  still 
Unto  all  souls  that  suffer,  even  as  now 
I  minister  to  you. 

But  what,  you  ask, 
Of  the  boy  Nello  ?     Beppo  died  that  year — 
God  rest  his  soul ! — and  the  child  'bode  with  us. 
But  when  the  lad  drew  nigh  to  man's  estate — 
Too  old  for  women's  guidance — he  was  found 
Oftener  than  elsewhere  at  the  studio 
Of  old  Fra  Alessandro.     He  became 
A  painter,  Signor,  and  men  call  him  great. 
I  know  not  if  he  is — but  you  can  see 
His  pictures  yonder  in  San  Spirito. 

You've  seen  them  ?  seen  my  face  there  ?  now  you  know 
Whence  comes  the  semblance  that  has  puzzled  you 
Through  all  these  weeks  of  languor  ? 

It  may  be. 
I  am  too  old  to  care  now,  have  outlived 
Youth  and  its  petty  consciousness.     My  face 
Is  mine  no  longer.     It  is  God's  alone. 
A  Mater  Dolorosa  ? — It  is  well ! 


AFTER  LONG   WAITING 

After  long  waiting  when  my  soul  puts  off 
This  mortal  vesture  and  is  free  to  go 
Through  all  God's  universe  in  search  of  thee, 
How  shall  it  find  thee,  O,  beloved  and  lost  ? 

Through  the  wide,  shadowy  spaces,  through  the  deep 
Profound  abysses  where  the  dim  spheres  roll  ; 
Through  starry  mazes  and  through  violet  seas, 
'And  purple  reaches  stretched  from  world  to  world  ; 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  all  it  hath  conceived, 
Where  knowledge  falters  and  where  reason  fails, 
And  only  faith's  strong  pinion  dares  to  soar. 
How  shall  it  make  its  lonely  way  to  thee  ? 

In  that  far  realm  what  myriads  abide  ! 
When  I  have  reached  it,  wilt  thou  find  me,  dear  ? 
One  grain  of  sand  beside  the  unresting  sea — 
One  blade  of  grass  where  endless  prairies  roll ! 

I  shall  have  changed,  O  love,  I  shall  have  changed ! 
The  face  you  knew  I  shall  no  longer  wear  ; 
For  few  or  many  though  the  years  may  be, 
My  youth  fled  with  thee  to  the  shore  unknown. 

I  have  grown  older  here,  whilst  thou  beneath 
The  tree  of  life  hast  found  thy  youth  again  ; 


AFTER   LONG   WAITING  47 1 

I  have  grown  faint,  while  strong,  exultant,  free, 
Thy  swift,  glad  feet  scale  the  blue  heights  of  God. 

0  friend  and  lover,  go  thou  not  too  far  ! 
Delay,  delay,  thine  upward  soaring  flight, 
Lest  when  I  come,  all  tremulous  with  joy, 

1  fail  to  find  thee  on  the  heavenly  hills ! 


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